Dying - a death close to home -
does not bring closure to those
who remain, any more than turning
the final page of a book
stops the story unfolding
on and on in the brain,
with an ant-like persistence
you can't brush away.
Where has she gone,
and why couldn't she stay
an hour, a night,
one more luminous day?
And yet it's as if
she's somewhere quite near,
invisible, perhaps able to hear,
somewhere in the ether
with no need of breathing,
unable to assuage my grieving...