This poem came from a prompt from Don McIver at the monthly poetry meeting at Thirsty Ear on December 21. The prompt was to write your poetry goals for 2023. At that time Vicki was planning to get more chemo to fight the cancer that threatened her life. We never expected the stroke that came nine days later, which constrained her to a hospice bed for her final five weeks. It was time enough for over 100 people to tell her face-to-face how important her presence in their lives and the overall community had been and would continue to be in the after. That is why Little Bird will continue and eventually expand its scope.

Only Coyotes Hear the Echo of Death

As surmised by the many,
a hidden death cannot be discounted,
the variegations of tympany,
alone, and conjoined in cumulo-nimbus dream.

Like television enjoyed
by the gang on Mount Olympus,
or tiniest of krill lunch
pleasing to our largest cousins.

My mouth yearns for just another kiss,
a brazen attempt to outrun Charon,
with no inherent expectation of catabasis,
sound of the Kaddish echoes from the mountain.

Poems form at the moment of least discontent,
the heart gurgles when love is overthrown.