And not to feel bad about dying. <br />Not to take it so personally— <br /> <br />it is only <br />the force we exert all our lives <br /> <br />to exclude death from our thoughts <br />that confronts us, when it does arrive, <br /> <br />as the horror of being excluded— . . . <br />something like that, the Canadian wind <br /> <br />coming in off Lake Erie <br />rattling the windows, horizontal snow <br /> <br />appearing out of nowhere <br />across the black highway and fields like billions of white bees.<br /><br />Franz Wright<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/thoughts-of-a-solitary-farmhouse/
