Wilted blooms drip
red on my deck.
I break them off at the stem
brutally, without remorse
and wipe their stain clean.

         Each morning a gentle hand
         with moistened towels
         wipes the caked blood off
         Mom’s lips.

Dry, withered leaves
are plucked
and discarded from my plant
in the same manner.

         My mother’s lungs
         are dying on the vine
         with no way to pluck off
         the dead members.

I slide the pot East,
turning it to get the full sunlight.
I use the water hose to
drench the plant,
flooding the pot to the brim.

        How is she today?
        I ask the nurse as she
        combs Mom’s hair and
        straightens her robe.

Then, I go inside,
to admire the view
from my window.
       
         Her wheel chair is pushed
         to the window
         where the morning sun
          warms her and sooths.

^{by A. Gagliardi}