The pulse that had slowed down to a murmur,
The breathing, which struggled for hours,
Became a whisper,
And ceased.

The still air in the room,
Slivery dust particles, frozen in place,
Like a faraway galaxy, barely visible,

A few doors down,
A nurse notes the monitor screen,
A casual walk to the room.
At the side of the bed, wrist lifted.
Doctor, attending,
Wrist lifted once again.
Time of death, three fifteen.
Body covered, white sheet.
The door closes, the room is vacant,
The dust galaxy slows itself down,
From the interruption.

In a different place, miles away,
People will be notified,
There, and in other spaces,
More will recall, remember,
A conversation, a day, a picture.
A life.

An endless set of gestures,
Decades in the making,
Come to harvest.
An act of help,
A sign of care,
A token of love,
A shrug of disregard,
A kind touch,
A word of inspiration.

A legacy that formed over a lifetime,
From countless action,
Dispersed to many,
Who will come soon,
To testify, at last,
For the one,
Who is no longer.

The bed is bare,
The room empty,
A silver galaxy rests still,
Outside the room,
In the world,
A legacy is born.


January 16, 2019
This entry was posted in Poetry.

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