Murray Hartin
http://www.murrayhartin.com/poem/RAIN%20FROM%20NOWHERE
Perhaps passing through the gates of death
is like passing quietly through the gate
in a pasture fence. On the other side,
you keep walking, without the need to
look back. No shock, no drama, just the
lifting of a plank or two in a simple
wooden gate in a clearing.
Neither pain, nor floods of light, nor great voices, but just the silent crossing of a meadow.
Mark Helprin