On a tender morning in May
we bathed her in beauty and watched
as she faded into the bed.
She did not speak to me
And her heart hid.

A regal month is November,
Autumn’s Queen.
She would have turned seventy-nine.
She wanted that day.
She wanted each day, no matter the cost.

As she died,
She felt she was still growing.

She loved her birthday.
She loved anyone’s birthday.
So for that—rejoice.
Rejoice anyway.

She spoke in knots toward the end,
knots that never untied,
and sentences that chased after one another.

“Boots” became “fish” and we just
nodded our heads.
We still wonder.

Her voice was too loud sometimes,
Too shrill.
It was never her voice before.
Some days the woman she had become
was not a woman she would have liked.

Then the fog enveloped her and
I became her mother.

I didn’t feel sad.
I felt strong.
For maybe now I could make her.
I could make her happy.

Oh how I wish I could tell her
About today,
The breath of each gilded leaf
After the rain.
The way the light looked against the parts
That were dark.

Then, the rainbow.

With its entrance,
Shy at first,
And slowly gaining magnificence,
It was her I recognized.

Rejoice.