Tuesday, November 3, 2009

The Z of Time and Illness

The passage of time is a mystery to me
Like the days that pass when I do nothing
And the tasks go undone, the weeds take over
The tree, though topped stands like a hulking monster
It presses on the fence, tangled round it's gorgeous trunk
The upper limbs rank with the scent of early decay and last night's
Rain so rare this time of year I will remember it as April not late
May, early June, my birthday always comes too soon


The sister of my soul, my whole life long, the level headed one
Now puts her fate in the hands of anyone with a crackpot theory
Or so I think, other than the doctor who says, it's there where the
Trachea branches into the primary bronchi just before it reaches the
Fertile soil of the lungs in and out of hardly any oxygen there rests the mass
Growing like the weeds, the vines, the knot of trunk that pushes on the fence.


No air flows and a vocal chord is paralyzed making the voice a high tight complaint
The lack of options narrows down to doing almost nothing, or getting up and fighting
As if all life depended on it. Her blood depleted of breath's oxygen one lung closed
She wants to think it over. Odd that she, the child of a mathematician who was the
Perfect parent, has rejected hard science, medicine, the certainty of numbers, pulse ox
Sed rate in favor of intuition, the spirituality of mysticism, the soul's belief in the souls truth


I can do nothing but await her fate as if my own life depended on this one decision still unmade.

©2009 Peggy Pendleton

3 comments:

Daryl said...

Color me very touched by this ... Love your email 'name', love your avatar (ripped off an excellent choice), love your blog .. thanks for visiting mine, I will be back (NO, not like Ahnold, more like McArthur .. NO I am kidding!)

Kayleigh said...

I've thought of you and your friend so often -- even more so of late as I approach starting chemo.

The poem is, as always, beautiful and deeply moving...I particularly like the stunning relationship between the tree pressing on the fence and the bronchial branches..."the
Fertile soil of the lungs" just hits you in the heart.

I cannot help but wonder if your friend reads these love poems (for that is what they are, of the best kind, too) -- and if she does, how do they make her feel? You needn't answer, I just wonder.

I think you are brave for standing beside her, for disagreeing with her yet letting her walk the path she chooses, keeping her close to your heart along the way. That takes immense courage. You have a strength that I deeply admire.

These poems are gifts.

Marinela Reka said...

Beautiful :)