today, death is one month old

and i hear the bell toll

or is that the shivering clang of the flag pole

it is the middle of March

we are in the middle of a march

but i am not too cold

my fingers are colder, my arms are warm

the sun beams touches-

no–rubs, rather, slathers–lovely honey upon my being

i am unafraid

i feel very warm

yet it is the aging silence at this birthday party,

it is the Funeral Silence

of seventeen minutes

that keeps the Cold young