Flight After Richard’s Passing by Jean Howard
Into the thoughts of clouds
we move,
aggressive needle
fast on our track,
as if we really know,
stitching our way
across the sky,
Across time,
heading this way
or that.
Benevolent cumulus
notice our prick,
a minute pinch
that dissolves in light,
and they do not
take note.
Yet we move
each morning
as if all has meaning,
the purposeful tie of each
shoe, the obedient
standing in lines,
our little zigzags scoring
life, wildly bold,
then retracting as cowards.
Until it ends
in the morning shower.
Then ICU.
Life support
for the next ten hours.
Then ultimately
turning it all off.
The confused heart
continues its beat, skipping
stitches for the next
few hours,
pushed by electrostats,
tiny sparks
which will soon,
as all flight,
disappear in a cloud. Art by Tofuvi
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