The Last Day


On the last day of this life as I’ve known it—
each day for a year savored
like the precious elixir it has become—
the white snow falls softly on the face
I’ve turned to the sky in wonder
at what a new dawn might bring.

I blink the drops of melted moisture
off my lashes and they fall to my cheeks,
become icy again dripping from my jaw
into the ringlets of my hair.

My face has become like a mountain,
stone eroded slowly by water and time
until I am no more than a flat place,
a meadow where daisies might spring up
again when the sun warms earth
into another life.

But today I am nothing but possibility,
longing for the warmth of love
that might slip his warm hands
into the place where skin
is now urgent to be released
from the lonely solitude of this day.

I have given up hope for happiness
of that fleshy path of the spirit
and must be content to trace
my own exposed collarbone
at the nape of control.

The breath is my messenger
to the next life—
in and out, slowly,
with gentle compassion
my lover now—
the only companion I can find
as the light dims to blue
and violet healing
of the night.

Tomorrow I will be reborn again,
the chance to take life into my own hands,
a tender seedling
needing tending
attention and absolute kindness
to bring blossoms.

Even if I must start here,
watering the tiny green gift
with my tears and sheltering her
from the winds of uncertainty,
I will do what I must to bring her
to bear fruit,
to offer this sacrifice at the altar of love

This is the only tomorrow I dare dream
into a new morning.