Rain stuck in clouds along the ridge,
Kennesaw Mountain and yellow
crane, the metal road dead-ends in air.
Dogwood trunks and lines of pines,
wafts of beigey windswept weeds
mark the end of March, of storm
leaving frozen sticks and mud –
all that grey, like the light in ICU
when the staff turned down
fluorescents for the night. No more
squeak of doctor’s shoes or blinking
screens – neon green, red and blue.
No more logjammed in my loft,
praying, crouched on couches
under blankets breaking glass
to sleep and float as my mother did
on streams and wings of morphine.
In crisp morning breeze, at dawn
I beg the birds and rainbow air
to morph this grief into endless sky,
audacious dots, those buds to burst
from tight fists, to lose their grip
on a season stuck in layers left of ice.