p
And when the time is right,
on a warm spring morning,
when the Swainson’s thrush sings
and bees buzz and bumble
from flower to flower,
I will add light and sound
touch and taste and smell,
and her beautiful soul
will coalesce before my eyes
And she’ll take my hand
and we will talk about music
and movies and things
all that she’s missed,
but I won’t mention
the cancer or her mother’s
pathetic death watch.