In the Midst of Life

In the Midst of Life

A bank of irises, palest blue to deepest violet,
anchors the corner of my yard.
Bravely standing, sturdy stalks and dagger leaves
poking up at the threatening sky, their brilliant fragile petals
defy gloom,
even though a few short days is all each flower has
before it folds into a gelatinous blob.
No dried, pressed memories for these!
Carpe diem, so bloom on.

Irene died last night, ten children around her bed
in various stages of shock and relief.
She was Mom to the town, a prompt refill of coffee and chat
from her corner restaurant, always open;
hadn't felt very good of late, nothing much, just not herself.
Feeling worse than she let on, she let herself be taken in for tests.
Down the line, sorry she'd begun what promised to end badly,
she had a stroke "to top it off!"
Angrily, she turned her face against the door,
trapped in a life continuing to decay.
"Leave me alone, just leave me alone!
No, I don't want to try to walk! No, I don't want my minister!
No, I don't want any more x-rays! Leave me alone!"

Today the judgment: nursing home:
a life of being helped
to walk, to turn, to talk, to think, to be herself.
As if her spirit took control and said, "Not that!"
she left. She willed herself to die.
Checked out at eight, her body lay there empty.
They could have it. Zip it up in a bag and take it away.
She was gone.

There's another one down the hall dying: Maude,
pressing herself stubbornly into the book of time,
drying slowly, keeping her color, breathing every breath life has to offer.
Continuously attended by daughters or friends,
she is a woman rare who knows both the give and take of love.
Still, she whispers, "When?"

In yet another room a man dies for the third time,
and rouses to grunt "uh huh" to the nurse's query,
"Are you still here with us?"
while his wife weeps by the phone, waiting for their children to call back.

A lullaby plays on the intercom, signaling a new birth.
This is the poetry of life
and it goes on.