Visiting Hours Over
Just sitting, I'm knitting, dreaming as fan blades idle
slowly with an incoming wind. The hands circle the clock
marking the passage of time into soundless history.
It is late, almost eight, a nurse appears at the door -
"Time to leave pretty soon." My hands cradle his face
as I kiss the salty brow of his altered memory.
Tears flowing, I'm going; our eyes meet and we soul mates
sing a hymn together. The dream is understood
by musician and poet. Rhythm has struck the right keys.
What's more, in close rapport, his lips form - a mute "Bye, Bye."
With a rare smile, he leaves me. I watch the fan blades reverse.
My prayers answered - escorted by a faint, outgoing breeze.
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