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