“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….

Image courtesy of Pixabay

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