My Dying Sister Writes a New Book

 

 

Being with Whabiz

Was being connected to the world – womb

Food fell from the skies thrice daily

No wonder I dreamt loaves and fish, leaving her

 

Her arts were home making and gardening

Until she was too ill to do either

Our bodies are gardens we grow for another’s use

And then we die….

 

So she took to writing her last years

And books grew leaves and flew

Or rose like bread in ovens

She no longer delves nor sews

 

And where she lives now it seldom snows

The sky is always clear

As a heart that forgives in writing

And then the eye clouds over….

 

 

© Hoshang Merchant