Thinking about dying makes me spend more time
doing pleasurable things.
Like eating my favorite flavor of non-dairy ice-cream,
breathing in the salty air of an ocean wave,
taking a longer look at an arching rainbow,
or catching a glimpse of a hummingbird in motion.
Thinking about dying makes me focus
on the precious breaths, I have left,
and not losing patience by the slow service of the cashier
or the way the hair stands awkwardly
on my sparsely-covered pate.
Thinking about dying tells me
not to worry about unread texts or voice mail
or checking the mirror more than once
to see if all those wrinkles on my forehead
had melted away.
Thinking about dying reminds me
to let go of the vanity
and all those meaningless moments
that I wasted
not being grateful.
–This poem was originally posted in Literary Yard in a slightly different form.