Death
is a coward whose face stays unshown.
He steals
in unseen and slips away quick,
with
petty excuse: while sewing alone
my loving
Julia happened to prick
her finger
with needle. By the next day
her face
was all sallow, pallid and slick.
I sat
by her bed for three days and prayed,
but all
of us knew that hope was not left.
'Cause
by the fourth day she'd wasted away.
Sometime
that night, while my sweet Julia slept,
Death
entered the door and took her for his,
without
announcement, and left us bereft.
Skulker
of darkness and robber of bliss,
Death
is a coward who hides in the mist.
-- © 1999, W.A. Seaver.