My father chose to die, like Socrates.
Not hemlock, no. Still, death was by his choice.
He gathered us and said he was well-pleased,
that all who loved him were within his voice.
He spoke to all and spoke of erudition.
Life, he said, was finally at fruition.
I’ve done it all, by any definition.
He urged, fain continue the tradition.
Please, be well. Grant yourself the time to play.
Sail the boat. Go ski. Drink the icy gin.
Grill the steaks. Boil crabs straight from the bay.
The worst thing at the end? What could. Have been?
If you’re not having fun, I taught you wrong
Let’s play a round of golf, who’ll come along?
{David L. Stanley:DStan58}. August, 2019
I’m bringing sonnets back. If you’d like to join me,
give it a few claps, toss me a follow. Thanks.
