Those left yet with us
and you are not worried about what’s for
dinner, or fretting about washing your hair,
or waiting for a call, or checking the clock
to see when to take the right medication.
Larks are birding duskfall and I stand
and take a shot of my late July shadow
thinking about your need to never again
take another breath for the struggle to persist
has at last ceased as has this tireless drawing.
My daughter is pulsed with the remembrance
of your last squeeze of hand, the moment you
slipped back into the elemenessence from
whence you came, the door left open for us
to nudge bravely and leave gently ajar.
A flutter at the window and I rise to see
a scattering dove, a grey rabbit feeding on
short grass, wind brush against the drytop,
this day, like every day before it, a taker
of those left yet with us for the leaving.
July 25, 2013