Tuesday, November 11, 2008


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