Heartbroken

Heartbroken                 

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.

Coping

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.