Even though her eyes are closed
they are same as mine.
My father’s mother
in her final bed
breathing one breath
per minute.
Like a flower that chose
not to open this year.
There is no noise
in the room and then
there is:
someone is weeping.
Day breaks through the falling snow,
turns it into rain.
They push the needle
into her tongue
like a hummingbird
in reverse.
