Making the shift before dawn, terrible
news confirmed. White coats ring a doomsday bell
and everyone breaks down and cries. The fight,
the lake, even the clouds gleam silver light.
Pragmatic, slow-cooking big slabs of meat,
the dying and the living still must eat.
Placing ferns out to catch this misty rain
before they come to cheer the house again.
I consult the death doulas, that special few
who graciously share their unique juju.
We’re reaching the transition when each breath
slow and calm may release her to sweet death.