I write this by your bed..

We are ferrel,
little animals,
back to the womb.
We want to climb
all over you,
snuggle under the
soft flaps of your skin,
sniff and gently
move away
the hair that
streaks your cheek.
You are our burrow
and our mother
bear,
and I must
give you back
to the elements,
to the ground air
and shit,
into fire water and
breath,
in and out again,
dispersing
into white
spaces,
parts of you
eloping into
tomorrow.

And what connects us now
as the
concertina tube
blows in and out
with a gurgle,
as your eyes
remain shut,
your toes out
the bottom end of
the bed to cool,
two perfect white socks,
toes pointingup
in the air?
You are peaceful.
I held your hand.
It was warm.
It was brown.
All those afternoons
in the sun
in the backyard
surrounded by geraniums
and
stone models of
tortoises.

Your hand is warm.
What else is there?
Your warm hand,
this/ a
silver cross.

Today, you lay
in a white nightie top
on a white pillow
among white sheets.
You looked like a
snowdrop
in Spring.
We brushed and plaited
your hair,
one bobble at the
bottom,
one at the top.

When we said goodbye,
you looked at us,
or was it through?
No. You looked at us.

And so this is the hardest.

And what makes me happy?
The breeze through the open car window, blowing on my cheeks, and seeing the moon three quarters full in the blue sky.

E. holding me.

People caring makes all things profound, when love is there.