This Christmas Day
the wind carols in the trees
the sun shines down
like the light of the Lord
everything is crisp and bright
and at night the full moon
sweeps the sky clear
 
so only the brightest stars
display their fires. Someday
there will be none of our kind
to stand witness, no scientists
to study it, no poets to write it,
and none of us nor our fine
inventions will be missed
 
among Earth’s patient urgencies,
but the sun will shine down,
the moon will sweep the sky,
the wind will sing carols in its own
name for only Earth’s ears to hear.

The Christmas tree has been stripped
and borne away, the ornaments boxed
and stored. We call this a new year but
it looks the same as the old one:
same sun, same damp morning grass,
same birds chattering in the pepper tree.
But we have given this year a nice number
and soon I will have spent an even number
of years breathing the earthly air.
It’s an even number that used to mean old
or at least on the threshold of old. Now
it seems more like an opening of the gate
to old, like a pretty little walk up to the door,
with plenty to see along the way. 
This morning, there’s a red-naped sapsucker
all black, white and red, drumming
on the jacaranda trunk. I think I’ll stand
a while and watch. No one says
I have to hurry down the walk.

The sandwich you make for yourself
one day, with just the right amount
of mustard, the perfect arrangement
of tomato and lettuce, could be your last.
The nectarine that splashes its juice
around your teeth and onto your shirt
may be the last one you will ever eat.
The dream you had last night
that you rose from, thrashing
at the waves of your sleep, may be
the last dream you will ever have.
Someday you will start your period,
sigh, and reach for the tampon box,
unaware that this is the last tampon box
you will ever need to open. Someday
you will experience your last kiss,
your last erection, your last orgasm.
Someday you will make love with your lover
and you won’t know that it’s the last
time you will ever make love, with anyone.
Tonight when I hear the rain
slap the sidewalk as they say that it will,
I will stand in the street with my arms
outstretched and let my face go wet
and my clothes stick to my sides
because the way things are now,
this may be the last rain ever.