If hospice beds could speak
We’d hear not much of ways to die
But of ways to live
On breaths of courage, truth, care,
Ways to worship in each now moment,
To notice the right ruby remains of a glass blown life
Well spent. We’d be
Coached on how to listen to the heart
Not with counting stethoscopes only
But with each spirit that wants to know each life’s
Immeasurable tectonic plates.
They’d tell
How much they wish for guests
To be by windows to wink at spatula wings gleaming by
Hear the hymn-singing trees
Or smell the moonseeking air of a warmer night.
They notice every tear that drips,
Every clench of sheet or pillow in the bang of pain.
They wish they could quiet the moans,
Silence the hammers, gently coast each
Occupant to laps of angels.
While watching,
Beds see smiles in their guest’s eyes
When a concerned face dips over the rail
To inquire what is needed.
Beds know of the wish that
Such faces would linger awhile
Even when it’s a nothing-to-do time,
Except sit quiet there as ancient restful pines
Without masks or gloves or anyplace else to go.
Hospice beds might like us to know
That their guests are more than old books
Packed into barn lofts,
Waiting to be de-cobwebbed and read again.
They are not mere ballerina straps carelessly
Left behind, littering Earth’s Palace.
Their camouflage is always unintentional.
Hospice beds would implore:
Guests need to treasure your loving presence soon
Before beds turn chilled empty once again.
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