05-24-2011, 10:46 PM
Two Haitian aides,
black clouds of rumbling thunder,
sweep into the quiet room,
blowing the papers on his nightstand to the floor.
They hurl lightning bolts of laughter,
as they swirl about his bed,
a tumult of sound and confusion,
waking him from the dreams
that come before death,
rolling his body this way and that,
indifferent to his fear;
they bury him in long white sheets.
The storm breaks to soft rain,
the room returns to silence,
and the wild clouds glide swiftly
to the next room,
where a woman has stopped breathing,
and they must make way
for another of the dying.
I've struggled with improving this poem which I experienced from the corner of my father's hospice room the day he died. The scene of the Haitian aides washing and changing my father's bedding was a beautiful moment. I felt their robustness, the comfort of their daily routine; juxtaposed with a man nearing death. Not sure I got it.
black clouds of rumbling thunder,
sweep into the quiet room,
blowing the papers on his nightstand to the floor.
They hurl lightning bolts of laughter,
as they swirl about his bed,
a tumult of sound and confusion,
waking him from the dreams
that come before death,
rolling his body this way and that,
indifferent to his fear;
they bury him in long white sheets.
The storm breaks to soft rain,
the room returns to silence,
and the wild clouds glide swiftly
to the next room,
where a woman has stopped breathing,
and they must make way
for another of the dying.
I've struggled with improving this poem which I experienced from the corner of my father's hospice room the day he died. The scene of the Haitian aides washing and changing my father's bedding was a beautiful moment. I felt their robustness, the comfort of their daily routine; juxtaposed with a man nearing death. Not sure I got it.