we are on the island of last days. insular, the size of her living room, with a wide bank of windows channeling light. the island boasts a fountain and feeders. hummingbirds, gold finches,cardinals. the over-fed rabbit abides.
i lay pressed against her, sniffing her soft, european scent~ the same scent as when i was 5.
you and they are wavering mirages on the edge of these last days. i, we have turned away from the profusion confusion of all that matters not.
it all matters not.
except the squeeze of our hands, entwined. the indignities coddled with grace. her changing green eyes, now the color of sea glass, that still flutter open and pierce my soul on the island of last days.