Crossing Over

Please--NO NEW REVIEWS OR RATINGS. This piece is one I value as an early effort. I'm so grateful for the
number of reviews it has already received since it was written in 2006. I keep it as is to show me how I started vs where I am now. Thanks for reading this piece. I'm always delighted to have new visitors. Just no more reviews or ratings. Warmest thanks.


Crossing Over


It may look like there is no one here
beneath these stoic white sheets. Look
here at this tall sliver of an old man.
He hardly breaks the swell of bedclothes
in this bed that overwhelms the spare
cubicle, a wretched holding cell for the dying.

His furious eyes and rude grimace long gone
Soon he'll leave these frail remains.
His weathered fingers pluck pluck plucking
at the bedclothes even as he sleeps. His
mouth curls.

He dreams of soaring with the baseball over
second base and swaying ever so slightly in
tandem with the rocking chair on the old
porch whose wooden planks groan under the
weight of too many feet.

His limbs worn and gray like the
tree limbs the forest calls down around him.
His toes turn blue to signal his flight.
Once a bold perplexing force, like the
Colorado River raging down a dark canyon,
a rebellious vine reaching for the sky.
Unstoppable.

Now his utterances are incoherent. His
shallow breaths engage in a narrow race
with the disappearing sun. His fluid eyes
refocus one last time. Then, like an
intrepid old boat slowly groaning out to
sea, he is gone.