Deathdate Poem by Morgan Michaels

Many times it's come and gone
an invisible 'X' on the calendar
in a season of speculation-
as many times as you have years:
of that you can be sure:
letting itself in, exiting again
quickly, and with no fanfare:
mindless of the way we label Chance,
the merest circumstance,
a Fate,
and scour the horizon for a date
of scant significance.
Someday it will come and bear us away
(sure, the time and terrain)
to heaven or quiet oblivion
the same thing, likely,
so please, God, let it summer be, then,
or better, still, the May.