My friend had only weeks to live
when we video-chatted the last time.
Yet she kept having morning coffee with friends.
O, still vivid as light,
her contagious laughter,
I can’t hear anymore.
My neighbor walked on our street each day,
held his grandson’s little hand, carried the cancer
inside until two weeks ago.
If we don’t know life, how can
we know death? said Confucius.
They lived as if their days were not numbered,
O, each day, unspoiled now.
This country road, these shades of green.
The spicy aroma of summersweet
wafts into dusk, under the bridge.
I chat with beloved Daughter, then savor
Husband’s homemade sesame honey pie.
