is what you said Sunday,
over the phone, speaking
from your small room where
all meals now are consumed &
lukewarm—half-pint milk cartons
collecting in the mini-fridge.
This, too, shall pass
is what you say, is
what you always say in times
like these, except now
to be positive means
something negative, means
you cannot leave & don’t know
if Delores, your friend, will be okay.
It means hours of Solitaire, visits on Zoom,
your nightgown worn late into the afternoon.
But notice the daffodils, you’d also say.
Their abundance. And look at the herring run,
you’d insist. The wonder of their will.
Your appetite has passed, and so has your penchant
for praying, giving way to sleep. You, today
in a hospital room, tired of tests, of tubes.
Still, you say This, too, shall pass.
And the goldfinch on the thistle.
His jaunty lisp.
