Crumble Into Sleep

I have been here before
watching him
from a distance,
from the living room door.

I can hear his breathing
from the hall, laborious and weak.
He's watching the snow
descend on Alabama ground.

The second time he's seen snow
in his life.
He whispers
"I'm on my way."

His wrinkled hands, fragile as paper,
slip along a cane, oak, gnarled as his body.
If he could reshape his life,
like flour and water,

blend it so his lungs
wouldn't fill with fluid when a breath is taken.
The fire in his mouth
would be from passion.

I have been here before
watching him.
His shoulders slope under the weight
of expecting.

He's watching the snow
for the last time.
He whispers,
"I'll follow."

A day of waiting for night,
when his shoulders cave

and crumble into sleep.

          BRIDGETTE HAHN