366
octopus
I already know
the way home

365
guess what
I'm gearing up to go
gentle into the night

~ not after Dylan Thomas

364
were I not bald
I too would shake my white locks
at the runaway sun

~ after Walt Whitman

363
sittingtodie

362
yes (i) (k)now death

361
Haiku poet Andrea Grillo sent two death awareness haiku, which I would like to share with readers. The first may have originally appeared in Hummingbird, though publication credit is not currently available. The second poem is unpublished.

please
scatter my ashes
in a summer garden
as daylight ebbs
and colors ripen


********


when
does summer really end?
my garden
deepens with each dusk
gold and russet highlights

360
Haiku poet Donna Fleischer sent the following death awareness poem that first appeared in South by Southeast, 18:1, 2010:

a stone
between my dead
& fading footsteps

Thank you, Donna, for sharing your poem. I find myself glancing back at my own footsteps, wondering which have died and which are fading. I want to know something more about this stone. . . where did it come from and what is its texture, composition? Has it been set into place between these footsteps?

359
hesitating
the grim reaper at the door
All Souls' Day

358
under
that
stone
my
future

358
my future
under that
stone

357
death brooking
no questions
no answers

356
hooting owl departure time

355
picture window
you won't find me
on either side

354
thunder I'm gone

353
cloudless sky
trying to imagine a world
w/o her. . . or me

352
rainy day bookshop--
someday somebody will be
browsing through my books

351
after the bone shop
I thank God I won't
last forever

350
March funeral
comes and goes
so do we