This Is Not a Dark Poem

Death has its anniversaries,
Even its fetes. One hundred
Years since so-and-so died.

This was the time of year,
We say, when she passed
When he passed, when they

Passed away. We shake
Our heads and shrug
Or sigh. We remember,

We drink a bumper
To their names, for such
Is fame. Then on we go

While we are anything to be
Ongoing, knowing the small rain
Down can rain, any day.

But one might imagine
Along the way, for a bit
Of mildly macabre fun,

That death really does
Have its own anniversaries,
Its own birthday to mark,

Although the planet spun
So quickly then, no time
Of year now could correspond.

Yes. Once there was a new
Kind of thing that, living, died,
And death was born that day.