What’s the worst thing, she asked,
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,
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.