Headwaters

The very last of all his aunts

and uncles have now died.

He thinks a lot about the dead
these days. Pictures them alive,
laughing, frowning, working,
teasing, busy maybe thinking
of all the dead they missed.

He's catching up to them,
the dead people he knew well.
He knows he isn't far behind.
He sees he's on that part

of the trail that's gone past
all the waterfalls, up near
the soggy grassland, the
headwaters of the stream--

yes, up where the sky
suddenly opens, accepting all.

hans ostrom 2025

Aunt

Forget the roller of big cigars. Here

comes the knitter of sweaters and shawls,

cook of chili rellenos and leg of lamb

and salted cod; here—

the obsessive tidier, expert gossip, 

worrier, desirer of quality in home-

appliances and carpet, lover of maple

furniture: my aunt, dead.

She never traveled far from 

Northern California—once to Mexico,

once to D.C., often to Reno to play

the slots left-handed.  Now she’s gone

as far as anyone goes.  “Toward the end,”

as they phrase it, she couldn’t talk much

but still said one phrase as clearly as

a rifle-shot: “Absolutely not.”

To God I respectfully suggest: Be ready

for this aunt and others down here

with their hand-hewn quirks, iron opinions,

loyalty, attention to detail, grudges, toughness.

You will accept them into Heaven.  They

will want to rearrange a few things.

hans ostrom 2024