Saturday, November 13, 2010


A flutter of green.
Faded, single leaf
Then spray of gold,
Carried on a wind,
Skimming my hair.
The morning has gone,
And with it
Those patients
Who one by one
Have sat in the evened-out light
Of my examining room.
A chart has closed,
And plan of action
Made official
In bold typescript.
Now in the open
Of a midday walk,
I can see the words
Already spoken
Between us,
My patient and me.
My words removed
His bated breath.
In a hushed corner,
Surety was tendered,
An occasion
Rare enough
In the well-lit room.

1 comment:

Rebekah said...

How rare to see light on a tree trunk as if for the first time. How rarely, too, we patients stop to imagine a physician's memory of a moment.