If Heaven is a perfect run
through a sun-dappled wood

Motes and dandelion seeds whirling
through the air
One’s lungs a joyous bellows
roaring breath
in
and out

A breeze, softly stirring the emerald boughs
(but always at one’s back)
Feet, aloft,
on Mercury’s wings

If Heaven is a perfect run
through a sun-dappled wood,
well then

when the time comes
to lay down my head
I should not fear, or rage
or mourn a life thus past

But instead
only thrill

in anticipation
of the race to come