(Or,
in the midst of life we are in death)
 

A rider on death
I am,

I walk
and thousands of cells
immolate themselves
on the soles of my feet
happy to become
the next layer of my caluses.

I eat
and millions of cells
on my digestive track
are sloughed off
to give way to a fresh
and ever ready layer.

I sleep
and the levels of my ego
die
and lose their way
in labyrinthine convolutions
of impossible illusions
reborn
anew in the morn;
or maybe not.
 

I age.
Where is the two year old
making mudpies,
Where is the teenager
aggressively opening
life's oysters?
Where is the young mother
of infinite patience
delighting
in those lovely babies?
Where is the woman
mature and powerful?
Where is the crone
white haired and wise?
 
I am riding the wave
of deaths past
and reining in
with a sure untutored hand
numberless deaths in the future,
the certain resurection only
on the crest
of the here and now,
each breath
each blink of the eye
each thought.