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A short poem about death, which is what most poems are about, eventually.

Hold my hand when winter comes
And feel me not shivering
There is no specter within me
To fear, no wraith will linger
Ill and tortured behind my eyes
And I will bow to no white throne

I will go into the heart of things
I will sink into basalt and magma
I will be rivers to the thirsty,
And meat to the lion, and the lion
And the thirsty.

I will be grass dancing in the wind
And fly as a feather on a bird
And when you sing I will be the air
That trembles in your throat
Forever indivisible, I will remain
With you until we mingle
In the belly of the earth again