– we play the New World Symphony for my mother
in her coma
Some bodies, quick as birds – their spirits
dance in bright air, their lives, plain as eyesight.
You filled the feeders, took the compost out,
not questioning day, or asking why night’s night.
We who crave images can picture elms
where birds flit, nestling in clefts, and leaves tout
leafy theorems, what grief may be. Today,
our red maple glints. The bird feeder sways.
Perhaps, your music plays on other clefs,
in other rooms. We held your hands,
as once you stroked my eyes. The sleeves
of sleep, Mother....I left. You went.
A sparrow’s blue, insouciant sky, but different.