The Hospital Room

Outside the windows
it is snow, falling on cedars
grown old and proud
next to the canal. If I crane
my head I can just catch a glimpse
of slate-gray water being
carefully plowed by pleasure
craft out on a holiday run.
Today is not about

pleasure for us, though it
is with joy that I see your face
and your eyes that hold
mine and then send out the love
you carry for me, precious like

the gifts of the Magi
and as sacred. Today is for
healing and for thankfulness—
for doctors and nurses
and orderlies who tend to you and
make you hum again, a living

machine full of wonders.
And I won’t even apologize
for appearing greedy or possessive
when I look at you and the first
word I think of—after
love, of course—is ‘mine.’




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