Life After

Phillip Brown

Some people say
that death leads to a life
wholly different
than living at all—
some sort of eternity unchanging,
spent asleep in clouds
or awake in fire.

Some even say death
is the end completely—
as definite and logical
as the firm snap
of the coffin lid.

But lying here
on the floor, face-up,
I wonder if it might be
more like walking
on the ceiling—perhaps
little more than
a change in perspective—

where we would tiptoe
over skylights, gazing
into the large panels of blue

and stand around the chandelier,
admiring it as it shines
like a fountain of light,
an ornate fire.

We would walk along the valleys
of the vaulted places at night
and speak of the stars
we were treading.

And maybe, if the afternoons
became slow and drowsy,
we might lie down
on the ceiling,

watching the people pass by below,
and remember fondly
what life was like
when we walked on the floor.