Among twenty antiseptic sponges,
the only touch of life in the room was
the sparkle in M—-’s green eyes.

The doctors were of three minds like
a college play with three actors
playing M—-.

She twirled in the December mist.
M—- was a walk on actor
in a far greater drama.

I have no notion which to prefer:
the beauty of her articulation,
the flight of her imagination,
M—- laughing,
or the aftermath.

Bare branches of the maple tree
filled outside our French doors
with the threat of austerity.

The long shade of M—-
crossed it to and fro. The mood
traced it into the shadow of
unstoppable joy.

Oh family, lover, friends! Why fret?
Do you not see how M—- walks
around the edges of the worries
that bind you?

We know doors to absolute light
and swirling delicious colors, yet
we also know that M—- is central
to all that we know.

When M—- walked into the x-ray,
it marked the vital edge of one
of many circles.

At the sight of M—- in a blue paper gown,
even the narcissists of Gilbert Avenue would
cry out sharply.

We rode over peninsula in a metal box.
Fear pierced our hearts, as we mistook
the silhouette of our equipage
for M—-.

The winter wind was blowing.
M—- was practicing her script.

It was evening all afternoon.
It was raining, and it was
going to rain.

M—- climbed up the trunk
in the wet leaves of the Maple,
singing a tune with a goldfinch.

Meanwhile the surgeon sewed
her up so she would not be late
for the scene in her next act.