Snow bends dry winter weeds.
I remember my death quite clearly,
it will be in the future,
like every live person I know.
I think on a Sunday,
the fourth Sunday in March,
the month of my birth,
eight decades past my single first day.
To be born into time,
this I have gotten used to,
although it is very strange
and quite rare.
On the aforementioned Sunday
I will be born out of time.
I will dissolve into the ambitious
ambiguity that preceded me
and now precedes someone else.
Rain wakes dry winter seeds.