I chose the yellowed white pearls your hands crafted as a gift
your art, my memory forever entwined.
Now on the morning drive west
the pink gold sun
rising slow behind me
this gift says goodbyes 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
in memory awakened to a daily becoming
not fading
burning off the haze of dawn.
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.
Hearing something ahead
songs of those with voices only
nothing to touch though reaching deep
Fearing the fall
knowing nothing but the view
of love from inside out
in this place.
From the opposite side, I watched the murder
some might say suicide.
Racing never an attempt to waver.
Morning speed a must.
Indecisive the victim scrambled left -right
then frozen in fear –crushed by the weight
a heart stopped.
A morning death always makes me cry.
To know the beat of waves in rhythm
stripping, striking stone to sand
gasping breath and fear together
pushed and pulled in chords of love.
