And I

, in as much as I fear death,climb the stairs with bated breath.
My goal- the shawl for my grandmother's shoulders
which sits upon her bedpost as she grows colder.
And I delay- not to play with Elizabeth
-but in fear of what draws near as she becomes ever so much older.

, in my masculine procrastination,
fumble and stumble with each chill sensation.
For what waits for me in that room
plays with the praise of impending doom.
And I falter with fear and trepidation,
crossing the threshold into creeping gloom.

, taken aback by the scent of flower,
find no form of conviction or power.
Merely the item which I seek
surrounded by a room best described as antique.
And I have no time to marvel, for I know the hour
lying far beyond the picture that forces my orbs to leak.

, in a fluster to flee that photograph,
rush downstairs to her chair and carafe.
Where I pour for her juice, so orange and so sunny,
it reminds her of the faces I made that were funny.
And I dwell on the thought of a coming epitaph
while listening to the history of my dear Grandma Bunny.