Nov. 2007
In the cycle of grief, one comes reluctantly upon anger, or maybe anguish. The foot slams down on the break but there is no break. Time pushes you onward toward the inevitable death and loss and you don’t want to go.

This poem is about my sister in anger that her daughter is slipping away. She has already lost her companion to the tumor. Lost her morning coffee buddy, the daughter/friend she has spent much of the last 14 years with 4 brain surgeries catching her and watching her back, as they would say. Meg was slipping fast, her tumor growing exponentially.

The sky was muted blues with purples taking over. Snow drifted deep around Kathy’s little patio clearing. A slash of muted sunlight marked the path of the setting sun. Kathy stood outside, so her daughter couldn’t hear her. This is the poem I wrote,

The snow is deep.
The mother, alert with care,
Watches her daughter in her sleep.
And later, into the icy air,
Shouts, “Not her!”

Not her, but then, the snow is deep
And the sun, barely a flare
Upon the horizon.


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