Winter Activities

For Grandma and the other dead:

It seems to me, that death is something sharp at first and then softens in time.
In a tombstone freshly chiseled, harsh and black characters;
and then when more time has passed after the final date, 
longer than the mortality lying within the dash,
when having proved a lasting power longer than its predecessor, 
death becomes the norm, the average state of being,
then the letters and numbers fade;
after countless harsh Wisconsin blizzards and rains.
And eventually, 
with writing and edges so soft and smooth that even the visitors that come to see you, 
who never really knew you, 
want to gently tip over your marker and use it as a pillow 
for their tired heads
and their heavy souls.
Then death is a comfortable pallet we all walk towards,
or slink, or waltz,
the wiser of us knowing that in its lasting power
is truth
and hospitality.