Pale skies this morning and a leftover 
moon, past being of use to lovers or night 
farers, pallid in the light. My mother sighs. 
She’s ninety-seven now and wants to die. 
Crippled hands no longer quilt, clouded 
eyes see only the edge of things. She sits 
at the window and watches the blur 
of her garden shrivel in October’s chill. 
A crow bullies his way onto the feeder, 
scattering the sparrows. Last night’s lovers 
head for work in separate cars.



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