Too Close to the Bones of Your Death

A special friend has been on my mind lately. He died of Cancer a few years ago. As I flipped the TV channels earlier today I glimpsed a golfer at the Masters. It reminded me how much he loved the game. In honor of my friend's memory I thought I'd share, again, a poem I wrote after learning of his death.

Too close to the bones of your death,
I think, to excavate the burial site.
How does one objectively pick apart
memories while dusting off raw emotions?

They say the cancerous beast fed quickly,
sucked dry any marrow of respite. Reality, it seems,
pulled the plug on a negotiable checkout time.
You, who ate life like candy, would not waste away
on a sugar-free half-life of hope.

I see you spinning in a kaleidoscope of moments,
captured grains at the bottom of an hourglass.
The dust will settle, in time, I know.
A slow-motion slide show is best viewed
when the bones are catalogued and safely under glass.

© 2003 Pam Patterson