Tuesday, April 19, 2011

before your hands turned cold

You died on a Sunday,
in the song of the rain.
The pavement was shiny,
my rushing in vain.

You left before I arrived.
And I felt myself fold
I wanted to see you
before your hands turned cold.

Your skin looked hard,
like green-yellow plastic.
Your tiny body was disturbing,
in a hospital bed so drastic.

A tear dripped down my cheek 
as yours received my kiss, so controlled.
I didn't want to lose composure
before your hands turned cold.

Your head was so big;
your brain ever-growing,
and your limbs so small,
atop a tiny trunk eroding.

Atrophy couldn't get past that iron-clad safe,
The one in your mind where it could never take hold.
Your brain was a fortress,
before your hands turned cold.

The machines were silent with respect,
and your eyes didn't flutter like before.
The blankets didn't rhythmically move
And I'd thought I'd wanted to say no more.

I thought I'd said everything I wanted to say.
I thought no more thoughts could be told.
But I wanted to warm your heart
before your hands turned cold.

For Uncle Guy.  January 26, 1965-April 17, 2011

1 comment:

Kari said...

Sorry, Chels.