He smithed the words from The anvil of his pen Like coins spilling in piles of thought. His dog lay at his feet In deep, regular breaths Of contentment. The sun was setting and rising On his life in shortening Sentences of people who Came and went through decades and minutes. All things had become music In notes only he could hear And see as folly and love. Death, then, was no longer The dreaded machine Coming, always coming. But, rather, a sweet darkness Like the dog sleeping at his feet Pulling him into the eternity of his life.