The Rock And The Doornail

My mother will soon be as a doornail.

Cancer is coming between us.

My mail will end then, except for ads,

filling the void worse than nothing.

But there’s toughness in all of us,

even those posessed by poesy.

I’ll be like a hillside stripped of soil.

Call me Cliff, or The Rock, Peter,

hardly thinking

of what is not possible:

a normal Spring, including her birthday,

the rare visit, her many gifts;

but Spring and her kindness notwithstanding,

just somewhere I can proffer

a message that amounts to more

than the white page of winter.

Her death will not be the end of our ties.

My memory of the source of my life

will make our connection felt,

but still…