After the Fall

By morning’s sunlight
your face no longer ash
but gold, like sun
catching the edge
of a dark cloud.

As you lay in the nursing home cot
unable to move your head
bruises staining your arm and face
you could not find your voice
but spoke through the faint grip
of fingers baby soft on my wrist.

They said a stroke clenched you
in the night, wrenched you from the bed
left you cold and curled
on disinfected linoleum.

Before speech failed
you spoke of a light
outside the window
in your head.

From that moment moved toward it
with a child’s fascination for water
no longer afraid.

This new tenderness
made me love you
through whispered words
and touches

I stroked your thinning hair
that morning; sensed that you were leaving
for the golden light.

© Deb Matthews-Zott