Chris Camarata MD
I see you
with the slowing of your gait
the change in your gaze
I hear your breath rush
into you
when you remember
when you feel the loss
like a deep stab
piercing the fleshy tip of your finger
from a thorn on the vine
I’ve felt the thorn’s jab
but it doesn’t matter
each bush is different
what matters
is that you are seen
you are heard
by another
I pray
a rosebud grows
someday
on the tip of that spiny shaft
and unfurls to show you a color
that had never existed
may the soft curve of its petals
the subtle sway of its fragrance
bring you comfort
Included with the permission of the poet.
