Near death she steps back

from the day to day, the ever again –

habitual and percussive


each stubborn beat

still bridges the gap. Thoughts flail in sleep

and push death away, death


that withers the breath

till the last frail flame whitens the eyes.

Beneath a blanket of snow,


a grey cloud-domed sky,

warmth still within –silver the triangle rising,

gold, the sun setting,


commingling in the heart,

with breath one last time, for her, here,

then spent. Sun set or moon rise,


this late night mourning,

by whatever account, however it appear,

in that single gone sphere,


that whirlpool comet trailing light,

cessation ceases. Sister, no more, a shipwrecked

body, a sea of stone, no breath left


to thread the way home


(for Arlene Susan Amtzis, 1951- 2016)




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