With Chemo Finished We Go On a Modest Hike
The high meadow of finch and thistle
glows in the amber hour when the deer return.
We may not see them – nothing is assured –
but with shadowed woods behind us
step into the splendor of lingering light.
Dusk is opening its sketchbook.
Wind fingers the grasses like shimmering
piano keys. We spread our blanket
under the banquet of sky to rest
and our thoughts drift off like milkweed
unencumbered by mass or gravity.
Someday may you lie with one you love
in the lap of warm September.
May you know by then
the greatness of the present moment.
And may the clouds be brushed with a tint
more tender than you have ever seen.
by Marg Walker
Editor’s Note: Personification gives the imagery in this poem a voice (because some pain is too sharp to address directly).