The days are zipping past unforgivingly.
Soon it will be March - my birthday month -
and the start of autumn.
Already, I have lived through
my last January, my last February
and my last season of summer.
The words seem but a fiction,
subsumed, as they are, into a greater grief.
When I can no longer endure the morning
torture of getting from bed to chair
and the return journey in the evening,
I will be bed-bound and have to say goodbye
to a view I have loved for over twenty years:
Zipadee a newcomer, always birds at the feeder
and the change of light on the walnut tree.
Then I will have no need
to wait for my body to give up:
I will die of a broken heart.
My illness has been so limiting,
I haven't been able to break free
or ride the four winds.
Now it's making visitors hard work:
I want to talk about death and dying,
they want to talk about their daily happenings.
I suggest a compromise:
Read me Winnie the Pooh,
or Treasure Island.