Death

It ought not cost
  as much as it does to die.
    Death is only a rearrangement
      of featherstone and wattles,

a re-bottling of wine
  for subsequent pouring.
    It cannot be said
      to belong to anyone,

nor does it have a fixed cost,
  but levies fines at crossroads
    where shipments of life are left,
      thimbles and buckets of blood,

and corollaries slippery as ice
  entangling cost with delight,
    making it folly to talk
      of tax-free birthrights.

Some cut short their time
  unable to redeem hours and days,
    their chemistry skewed,
      or their imaginations.

Others slog on, absorbing aromas,
  making their way, rebuffing
    despair for love of the time,
      savoring continuation.

Little about leaving bodies beckons;
  rather the spirit is fired to war
    for a redirecton of forces
      to create joy in the cell.

Presently we follow nature’s ways,
  but when “die” is said outright,
    we file it under “maybe,”
      having small faith in death.