I Give You A Poem That Starts With Cliché

We all die. And whether I drop

Down to the asphalt like a shooting

Star, one moment here the next not,

Or slowly fade in a soft coasting towards

The great below, a rheostat of life

Dialing into darkness beneath breath,

Or disappear like a melted bank

Of tired ice and rock

Slogging into April puddles,

Today there was the satisfying crunch

Of gravel and dirt underfoot running

A hot trail near home, and then

Seven jacarandas glistening

In their motley row,

(ahh these hock-a-rondas!)

Wild life smiling underneath

Springtime shawls

Of purple snow.