as with a scramble about a ship's half sunken deck
we wander through desparate questioning
abuse rationale and cling to ladders unbound
to any universe but this. at moments like these
we reside with time meaningless and never enough
though powered by pink rosary and mother mary
years were a film to which there was no projectionist
or door to where hers rolled. the last thirty were
without her John L yet never was joy outweighed
giving unseated or throws left unknit by hands astute
two nights before the first snowfall
her breaths were puffs of delayed summer
pushed from beneath doors of two rooms away
her eyelids moved as dropped feathers
through a windless silence and still
she mouthed my given name hello
she entered the black wood the day after
so in time we can. long after grief's quieting
her scent: roses and life
yes even now
her lantern: bright
the same raised by her mother
sixtysix novembers past
this gait of hers: courage
practiced and for us
twigs' soft crackles
leaves' sweeps
we will follow
and without fear
her release to the beyond
was a sun's reminder
for crocus awakenings
and geese returnings
and we thank her for waiting so long
