Like a muscle gripped
against old pain
and softened,
discovering quiet after assault
like a candle snuffed out
by velvet night breezes
so darkness can dance
in a spangled cloak
like a spring-fed lake
whose only exit
is evaporation
ongoing
the opposite of hope
is not despair.
There was a lilypad
pushed by ripples
to rub up against the next,
opening like a baby’s mouth
to gawp against its neighbour.
I watched the green
look like it was eating its brother
but each soft undulation
left both unharmed.
There was a rain falling
so gently
it left no splashes on the lake,
reminding my body
of being watered.
Flowers in full bloom
on the surface,
other leaves suspended below,
upheld by water
and me and this damp page
receiving gratefully.
I am spending more time
with my prognosis:
dying
this death that seems slow
but won’t at the end
instead of putting on a sweater
and waiting in the office
for the name of it
I am lying in the sun
and letting rain touch me
the diagnosis sparks
such gossip
as if it were rare
did you know she is dying?
the telephones shrill
or thumbs sketch out conjecture
as if it were unheard of
and not inevitable
as if the support group
is exclusive
keeping you out
…welcome.
Leave no trace,
walk so gently
the earth feels your toes
as a tickle
and grass springs back
after your touch.
Start erasing
with kindness
all the pencil marks
sketching your contours,
all the measurements
planned for safe cutting.
Think of your seeds
not as tall trees
but welcome birdfeed,
sprinkled unnoticed
except by the singers
too focussed for gratitude
or questions.
This delicate invitation
to make space
for the wide empty,
the deeply soundless hum,
contains a slight echo of loss
and a welcome vibration
of freedom.