Beside a Deathbed

Her spirit hiding among skin and bones
In willingness and wariness waits death
Like hares that peer from corners of their pens
Lured by a curiosity, yet loath.
Her eyes meet bed, chair, face, but do not focus,
As if these objects, heretofore mere shade,
Have caught up with their shadows. Things that wake us
Upon her eyelids heap a heavy load.
As straws pierce rock, our words reach where she lies,
Heedless of our cheerfulness or condolence.
Uncaring how our chatter ebbs or flows,
She catches the first syllable of silence.
So true the craftsman, memory, in lying
She will be less a stranger dead than dying.