inside her, the shudder
of a world trying to be free,
a mystery of blood in search of itself,
sometimes lost, a deadend
and the return to the brain,
over and over until her heart
stops for but a moment,
such sweet sanctuary
to consider what is eternal,
what can be done,
what can be undone
it is not worry after all,
she knows her limitations,
the relapsing,
the remitting,
and the secrets of flesh
and what death will bring
it is more than that,
she sees beyond herself,
to her children,
answers for them before her bones
crumble beneath her
and I have done nothing in my life
but witness what is courage,
what is depth, what is compassion
and what it means to know
that the birds still sing for her
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