by CHRISTA LUBATKIN
You take your leave for the last time
no slammed door
only a cat-squeak as it gently closes.
Drips have stopped dripping, pumps
and monitors banished to the corner,
instead candles flicker
vases overflow with nodding blooms.
Shutters are opened, sun laps your face.
You chose this Monday morning
after a weekend of good people
had poured across the threshold
of your home
spread memories in your shadowed room
before they filed out again,
some in tears, some with shy smiles
clutching a plant, an earring, a book.
About the Author
At fifteen Christa emigrated to the US from Germany, and now resides in Tucson with her husband of forty years and her dog Whisky. An avid hiker, she contemplates the sweetness and sorrow of life on Arizona’s desert trails, while using poetry to give shape to her thoughts. She thinks of her writing as the footprint of her being, the legacy she leaves.
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