On the Death of a Writer

The rain is falling again.

The garden smells fresh

And a solitary blackbird sings.

 

I heard of your death.

Your book remains unread.

You had others to write

And now are dead.

 

Each man has his plans

Literary or otherwise.

But none knows

When his eyes may close.

 

The clock ticks as I write.

The scent of wet earth

Enters the house.

Tonight I will close my eyes,

And tomorrow write …