Thursday, September 4, 2014



(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.

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