Passing

In the twilight between waking and forever sleep Her hand flies distractedly to the wild strands of gray As if to restore her perfect coif, or clutching a tissue Dabs delicately at her nose, oblivious to the tubes that tether her to life I study the exquisitely ravaged face And can still see the echoes of the lovely form That was once a beautiful woman in the full-flower of youth, Her thick, chestnut hair framing a doll-like face Eyes closed, her brow furrows and she murmurs softly Muttering nonsense words about frozen soup and hard bread She is in some faraway place – perhaps the ghetto of her childhood Where food was scarce and siblings died for lack of it The irony is not lost on me that she has come full circle, Though now the starvation that threatens her frail frame Is imposed not by outward circumstances But by her own weakened will to sustain a stubborn life force It is a fragile bond that holds her now to her bitter present And soon, I think, she will drift off to a place I cannot fathom. For it has been a long and arduous journey And she is weary of the struggle.