Only a few grains of time in an hourglass
and a bit of unlived life
remain.
That which died
weighs heavily upon the earth.

A handful of golden grains
that I clutch in my palm
and a few breaths of fresh air
in carbon coated lungs
remain
before the hourglass is empty
and my hands vacant.

I think of the cool solace
beneath the sun-backed branches
the mute fidelity
of my friend on the leash
and
the sickly servant
who cooked and cleaned without complain.

All they had was but half an hourglass full
and even that they poured into my palm.
Now I have enough to give, before my hands are vacant.