I have been writing poetry all morning,
Or I have been putting order to words
and some construct of thought
little rhyme, some reason.
The rhythm of my speech, a cadence
slightly loftier than usual.
Is it Poetry?
I say yes,
but can hear others
say no.
My mother sits up in bed
to catch her breath-
And I debate whether
I am a Poet or not.
I know all things die,
I do not know if death is final.
My father died.
My brother died.
My mother will die-
I know all things die
But I do not know
If death is final, an
end all where all ends.
At any moment there could be a code blue
and it will be announced
via an intercom
so everyone here will hear.
It will serve to remind us
that all things die-
But not everyone will listen.
I imagine I listen
as the Poet.
This puts some distance
between the mother
who sits up to get her breath
and the mother who will
no longer move.
But Poetry?
Who can say?
I know that another half-moon,
not exactly the same position-
But another half-moon will
rise in the sky,
Similar to the one that rose on
the night I first lay my hand on you
to feel your heart beating-
I know because last night
We stood outside and looked
at the moon as we spoke on our cell phones.
I remember this, sitting in my
mother's hospital room
and all is made bearable,
All is made bearable
by us being together-
Two Poets are better than none.
We know all things die-
So we talked about the moon
On the phone for more love, more light.
February 21, 2010
