Blanche Rosloff
Cell 2 Soul. 2006 Summer; 2(2):a20
In this season of tears
when Palm trees
shake their tattered heads
from her hospital bed
my sister asks,
"Tell me, how much time
do I have left?"
We all want
to hold the world close.
We all want the rise
and fall of our breathing.
Something slams in my soul.
This time the pharmaceutical wonders
have not done their work.
Now, her months may be
counted out like coins.
Too soon her life will
vanish like a hare
through June fog.