“April is the cruelest month, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain.” -- T.S. Eliot The Waste Land
So we sat there in early spring
after she got that dismal news
sat right on her back porch
and she wondered
if it would be possible
to fly off and touch
the rings of the universe
maybe pour a large
glass of sangria on Saturn
or sidestep through
a sanctuary of stars
she talked of metastasis
and pain management
and the taste of morphine
becoming the nectar of necessity
she also said
euthanasia might be
the way to go
I saw a brilliant red cardinal land
on the top of the fence board
glorifying this cruel spring
then I looked up as
her brother came in the gate
and she went to him
put her head on his shoulder
and I needed to
shrink into the woodwork
but I was outside
so I slinked along the honeysuckle vines
skirting the perimeter of the garden
that she wouldn't be able to plant
then I dissolved completely around
a row of newly sprouted irises
pricking my finger on a newly
budded rose bush
those two comforting each other
holding that horrible illness
at bay for one moment
delaying the flight to Saturn
and the sanctuary in the stars....
