Dying
This morning, the air is chilly
and I'm barefoot in the grass
as he sits wondering at the window
staring soulfully through the glass
at my hardened stillness
to see if he can understand
what he gets for his love
what he holds within his hand
Does he see I'm dying
does he realize that I'm weak
no dew on blades this morning
as no words I have to speak
I'm fond of sitting, picking
each blade and slicing it in half
he sits warm where I used to be
pondering how to make me laugh
The roses long wilted still remain
in a vase on the kitchen table
he doesn't see it's me
instead he creates a fable
where the being of me lives
and loves beyond the death
but sifting through the blades of grass
I search my final breath
he's foolish behind the pane
it's memory on which he's relying
fingers falling, he never turns away
but he doesn't see me dying.