Sense of Loss

In this room, no one enters.
The bed is perfectly made
And the pattern on the wall
Hers, cast by sunlight
On that wall -

Her last breaths
When the doctors gave in to
Shadow of a painting
Mother was finishing
Last strokes, last heartbeat.

A women I love has words in her
Hand and as her habit she
Tosses them loosely
Trying them out for sound
Click and tap like dice.

Even the ocean tries one
Thing against the sand then
Recedes and tries again
These dice don't add to score
Everyone isn't willing to count.

The kindest thing would be to
Pull the blinds, unmake the bed
And nest the details inside
Carve these back and forgive
All the years the waves washed.

6 Jan 05

~Dave~