Many cultures around the world believe that a white moth is a visitation by the soul of a deceased loved one.
My mother’s dying wishes couldn’t fit
into the shibboleth of death’s toolkit
doctors wielded. Shielded by CYA
they poked and prodded, toxified to buy
stint in drug-filled haze, so thorough the dose
the ruction didn’t seem to faze. Who knows?
She couldn’t speak before her final breath
incandescent, luminous into death.
Now here beside the lake, taking a break
from packing, following the lists she’d make
each morning while I’d compose morning praise,
her songbirds sip and flutter, greet new days.