Sailing Into Oblivion

Whenever death decides to come
Then let her come as a noisy woman
Street wise     Opinionated     Fast talking
And brash enough      To carry me off
In a flood of foul language.
Or let her come as a lively and familiar friend
Wearing a smile and bearing in her hands
A bowl of ripe yellow peaches
Bleeding juices in the sun.
Or let her come as a singer of songs
A boy        A girl
A troubadour      A troublemaker
A maker of nothing
A game     A toy.

Or let her come 
As a maker of fine boats,
Like the poet Li-Po,
Who more than thirteen hundred years ago
Would write his verses out
On bits of paper,
Then shape the paper
Into tiny boats
And set them on the water 
Just to watch them 
Float away.