hospice.

i only know what i have known:
the day comes there is no avail.
the great translation’s yet to be,
the moorings disconnected —

  i was her son before all other things,
  a child of music, poetry, and teeth;
  the voice so shaky now in my head sings,
  the lyrics and the verses, her bequeath —

i see the spirit’s mostly flown.
disease can make a home a jail,
and simple things a misery,
until the path’s elected

  to turn herself into a summer flower,
  to live within the heat, and know the price:
  a hospice choice, the last one of her power,
  before the coming of the dark

  and ice

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