Mememto

 

 

(After a conversation with my mother.)

In the new wing of the nursing home,

she stands framed by an archway.

A bone statue draped

with skin white and translucent

as a Malaysian moth. The psalm of her voice

looming through -- as she talks to the air

or a shadow..

 

I only watch

but no longer pursue

 the art of living. I  linger

on the threshold

witnessing those who come and go.

 

It's not a sorrowful thing;

just stasis, My turn

when the antique  clock

or weathervane shifts.

 

Look, it's raining.

Run  outside

and bring me a stone

 

One from the garden

whose sudden fountain

is a sun shower.

 

I will leave it

where I pass -- and mark

the end of a scene.

 

A sentence of details

defining what I touched,

how they touched me.