One of these mornings, she won’t wake up.
Sometime at night, as stars are shining,
half-moon high, the last drop from her cup
will slide off her lip, defining
if only for a moment’s time
how this earth’s crush is confining
yet in death, it slips away, like a dime
through her frail fingers.
We mix life and death in a sublime
porridge over which we linger,
then lick our lips, taste the sweet
nectar of death as it malingers
close enough to cast its pall in complete
and wanton abandon. It snags my arm
but I do not concede its grasp or retreat.
Death has come for her, it signals no alarm
as it curls and caresses up her form.
Sweet Sister, even now you have your charm.
I watch her aura as she faces the imminent storm
Susurration amongst the clouds, she hears
the bugle’s echoing call as if to inform.
She walks the path, picking primrose and baby’s tears,
clutching the bouquet to her face.
Yet the perfume abates then disappears.
To her lips, she raises at last, the loving cup.