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What’s the worst thing, she asked,

About dying?

The stars, I said, As I leave the barn,

My horses, buried nose-deep in Timothy.

The pounding dirt, I said,

The Irish Wolfhound’s lope,

And the dust of her joy.

My children, I said, Their hate of me,

Then, their love of me.

I will miss all of that.


What’s the scariest thing, she asked,

About dying?

It ends in dust, I said,

That upon my death, 

I really die. 

That I am finite, and not

Like the stars, 

That all I am, all I know,

All I feel, is less than the dust

Of the stars, I said.