How Sees the Angel of Death

The angel of death has kind eyes,

half-smiling eyes,

eyes reaching for a punch line.

They’d be at ease anywhere, those eyes,

watching Monday night football

or children at play

or fireflies across a field on a July night.

They are of the earth, those eyes,

but then again not.

They glow with fierce purpose,

missing nothing,

losing nothing,

and span a different spectrum…

measuring the readiness

of worth in its time.

And should you ring with ripeness,

when true sweetness

condenses about the seed,

his eyes root you.

He hands you one of two cards

given your belief:

“Master of endings,” says one.

“Midwife,” the other.

They flare cleanly then, those eyes,

as gateway and blade,

severing body’s tie to soul,

soul’s tie to body,

so each, free,

expresses

in the great ground of being.