The eve of death disturbs the phone
of sleeping son and love alone.
Hospice calls a moment past,
the agony unshared, yet to be devoured.
As a stumbling alerts us to the pain
that will inevitably come,
yet begs our balance and resolve,
a futile plea to immortality.
And later, after public utterance
and tearful countenance
do they smile at motes of dust
and bow to God’s reprieve?
V c2008
