To the Terminally Ill

This is the poem I wrote as a child,
when I was meeting with my grandmother
to say our goodbyes.
She was in bed, at home,
not going to last the night,
due to cancer.

To The Terminally Ill
(Delta Magazine Fall 1996)

One who creates beauty
is a poet.

The truth of the world
lies in the secrets of happiness
which comes from the heart;
where would one start
to make love's inner rhythms unfurl
into explainable thoughts
that show what is bliss
even when our lifeline has knots?

When people stray as they progress
they must back up and repress
the problem which is a sign
of a need for specific improvement.

It is wise to be happy
and to hold on to what o ne has--
to be thankful for wisdom
and the importance it casts,
for whatever knowledge we gain
in each of our lives
there are always surprises
and changes to be prized.

When something is missing
or something goes wrong
that is our opportunity
to make ourselves strong.