The Tipping Point

I peel an orange beside her hospital bed.
Does she smell it?
Does it bring a thought
of sun
of life
of sadness?

Is my mother's brain
processing still?
Does she feel herself drifting,
life floating further and further away,
unable to grab it
to hold it
to keep it here awhile longer?

I feel her gasping breaths,
one terrible awful
inhalation at a time,
every single one making me wonder

Will another breath follow?
I wait.
I hope.
Please breathe.
Please stop.

The last of life for which the first was made, with apologies to Robert Browning

I used to be you...

smart

beautiful

young

crazy.

In a flash

I was old.

Don't follow.

As the flesh weakens

stay young.

As the mind hardens

stay young.

Make them grin

when you pass,

wondering how to become

just like you

when they're old

or even now,

while they're still

young.