June in the north is a convocation|
of life: a barely dipped sun,
a shower of birdsong
and a suddenness of flowers.
My mother's room is still. She turns her eyes
at the call of raingeese: out of decay
the blue bird-brightness of her gaze
holds summer's tincture.
Time's at a standstill now: for years
she's chased and bullied it, imposed upon it,
filled it to the brim.
But now the pendulum is set
to pause at every turn.
She turns her eyes again, following
the birds' flightpath. Momentarily
they lift her world beyond
its withering perimeter.
I sit prepared, yet unprepared:
it is momentous, this threat of separation;
and then eliminating thought.
Unfinished conversations hover: words
have an all or nothingness
about them. We lapse into a silent vocabulary
of eye and hand, a collusion of smiles.
I watch her breath flicker
ever more feebly,
until at last the moment comes
unremarkable: one final sip of June
Suddenly the raingeese call
wildly as they pass,
but no eyes turn.