The curtains in a hospice room
Are nicely pressed and clean,
There’s not a hint or trace of doom,
Nor speck of hope to gleam.

A wedding dress, she will not wear,
Instead, a patient gown,
While waiting in intensive care
For her doctor’s next round.

You will not find her sitting there,
At least not as of late,
She must have left to go somewhere;
Forever thirty-eight.

As I lie here
With eyes closed softly
I think deeply of you
And I inhale stars
The scent of twinkling light
So fresh and alive
Sparkling gentle inside me
And I want to write this feeling
So tentatively
As it must be
Like writing words on bubbles
Delicate and precious
Begging them not to disappear
Like dreams in the morning

                                        By Phil Roberts