Every day breathes hope from forgotten dreams
taking for granted expected miracles of awareness.
But out the door then,
without coat or cover
on to a human paced journey of doing and stuff-
an accustomed living with exposed intentions
and brokenness, storms and tantrums,
only then to circle back where a closed door shields the heart
in prayerful submission to the chill of that day’s failed ending.
I chose the yellowed white pearls your hands crafted,
gifted art,
entwined with my memory forever.
Now on the morning drive west
the pink gold sun
rises slowly behind me.
This gift speaks your goodbye to me.
Your death was from my art undone.
I am sorry.
There is more care than orders scripted or procedures done,
more than the fatigue of so much hurt.
I chose the yellowed white pearls
entwined in memory,
awakened to a daily becoming,
not fading
burning off the haze of dawn.
The memory soaked moment
unwanted
stains
glass windows of prayer
She did not match the data presented
in hospital speak to a crowd of learners.
It was not so much a lie
as it was a revealing – a tale.
The well and the ill are stories
told from all sides of a hospital bed
in space and time
not captured in code and computer screens.
So let the record so reflect
the hurt and the heart of
hands reaching
and healing
beyond the numbering of days.
Without respect to will
the heart still beats and chest breaths life.
Not true when with pain
I choose
to listen or not, to care too much-
hold so tight the hurt
the inner lines are lost
and I am not me but you.
