Intimations of Mortality

As a boy I imagined Karloff's Mummy
set off from Egypt, plodding dunes,
arms ever out in the usual Mummy way, 
on his mission to Detroit, and me. 

Now and again I plot him across the years,
stilting in black and white along the long 
Atlantic floor. No character development here,
yet each … dumb ... effortful ... step: a progression.

Rarely as a rule do I dwell on the horror. 
Cursed and carefree as any archaeologist, 
I bustle about, running errands, playing ball;
me so nimble, and him so far.
How slow the director had him project
his shadow ... across ... the screen.
Only my buddy's wisecrack cut 
the fear, helped me make it through to the end:

Anybody who gets caught by The Mummy
deserves to die!

   -Atlanta Review, Spring 2009
-- Roy Mash

It is morning;
clouded and still, the air,
threaded with glimmering wings,
hushes the garden, soft in its beds.
The blessed green angel
has touched the new and eager plants
now arising in the light,
each color a fresh flowering of love’s intention,
as if it were the first day of the world.
Inside, we are quiet,
murmuring what might be a melody
so softly, the air is not disturbed,
but slows to listen yet a while.

	Soon, we too will rise,
	walk out into the reverent air
	so tenderly moving among the plants,
	so gently upholding the winged,
	so generously enfolding our murmuring notes,
	offering them to the emergent symphony of the day.

-- Sherri Rose-Walker