"The Bus is Moving; Please Hold On!"

So vocalizes the bus driver of my early morning journeys . . . a profound and wise observation of the whirl-wind of life . . . "The Bus is moving; please hold on!"

My friend is dying . . . her world narrowed in to the breadth and depth of a shoebox
 . . . her grip strong yet slowly . . . like a flower blooms
                             hands open . . .  reaching to the warmth of the sun . . .
. . . she hangs on to these last sweet moments, soured a bit by pain . . . 
                                                 yet energized with anger . . . "I don't want to go
                                  I am not ready. . ."

Like a small blue comma,
curled up in your bed of ephemera . .
                                           you are pausing for just a moment
                       the clock whispers against the wall . . 
             still
                                   before that last good-bye
                                                you cling to the shreds of flesh
                                                                             you call your own . . 
the birds in the nearby trees,
            sing your name
                             with the lustiness
                                           of the well fed
and a minute humming bird
                                          drinks from your
                                                                    overflowing well . . .
your voice may be shrinking
but your song still rises across the valley . . 
                                                 a clarion call.
        Rest in the  cool shadows my friend . . .
                                find your place
where your head falls on my shoulder
                                                      I can be your boulder
                                                                                 of strength . . .  when the wind blows
             so carelessly
you fly in those breezes like a kite
                                                  of many colors
                                                                     reflecting the light
of this lonely blue planet 
                like a lover's drop
                of blood on a mirror . . 
                                                 Your eyes flow along the horizon
                                          watching the crows harass a hawk on the high narrow 
                          stream of air currents . . 
The bodies of the mountains
                                      cup the valley in safety and wisdom . . .
                    where a line of shiny bikes
        lead to your open door
                               and dusty footprints follow a pathway to your bed
where you lay
      curled up under a blue blanket
                                                             and wait
       for your set of wings . ..