With my poetry self silenced
my dreams have turned peremptory.
My outer garden might be peaceful,
enclosed by trees and bird song
but my garden exists in an earthquake
ravaged city, frozen into silence
by last week's winter storm;
I am losing time-honoured carers
and many friends are reaching critical
transitions. I am bandying about
words like carotid artery,
pneumonia and dementia.
My dreams have returned me
to a house of grief, more spacious
and airy but requiring further attention;
I stumble when I walk, if 'walk'
is the right word, I lack
If the inner world mirrors the outer,
I am unfinished and ungainly.