white/rose, a poem driven by focus word selection from another poet. he goes by: APoetwithPassion.
Wan, weary, woefully bereft,
Hoping, hurting, slumped against his chest,
In my imagination, she flinches at the sound,
The cautious attempt to enter unannounced.
Either she is praying, a wretched sob of grief,
Or silently frozen, willing me to leave.
Signaling for help, and clearing my mind,
Each of my breaths, too loud in the silence.
Reluctantly I wait, as my nurse approaches, whispering to me the recent prognosis.
When she pauses, I pass her the chart, newly amended results and remarks.
Hollowly, she reads in a whisper,
frowning, then a breath as it hits her.
I was the only one, my optimism undeterred,
Trying to encourage, instead of the reverse.
"Would you be willing to tell her," I ask,
"His route of recovery now the danger is passed."
Her nod, just enough to show she agrees,
I blink in relief, and unlock my knees.
It should be simple to move to my office,
but it takes all my effort to turn and walk in.
After a flick of the switch, I recharge in the dimness,
Slumped, controlled breathing, eyes closed a few minutes...
the whitest rose, and the scent therein,
a meditation, a bit of heaven.