in her last hours
oxygen levels dropping,
my mother, blind for many years,
describes her hospital room
and gets the colors right  

secured in silence
the monitors and machines now turned off  

she feverishly leads a charge
up and over a mysterious hill, urging
her comrades to make haste  

now visits Camp Louise, lectures
her campers on how to use
their wood carving tools safely              

hears the Philadelphia orchestra, nods
to the music, but can’t tell me
the name of the piece    

she holds my hand, feels my ring   
   and in a voice clearly meant for a young child:    
      This feels very pretty, little girl.  Who gave this to you?

My Mommy, I answer, thinking we are playing  

Ah, your mommy must love you very much         
      she says to the unknown child in front of her  

Yes, she does, I attest, while she slips further                     
Yes, she does