Counting the Rings

   
103.2°F/ 39.55°C  
   
near my sick bed  
he murmurs of how he crumbles  
but I'm still here  
I've fought so long  
I'm here for a while I trust  
I believe this, I must  
even when it's bad, because  
his faith alone is not enough  
   
my random thoughts of how long  
I have, and his thoughts of  
"will she be able to outlive me"—  
even at moments like this  
it happens that  
we hold on and speak of a future  
   
   
99.8°F/ 37.66°C  
   
rolling restless this early morn'  
you exhausted and I  
drying up from a virus  
   
spying through the shredding  
of 250-thread count bedding,  
between the hillocks of shoulders  
   
we never can sleep  
in anticipation for what's to come  
   
to plant the seed & watch it grow  
though we will never see it bloom  
for all the other things we know  
   
and live beyond that fertile past  
of what we did and what we'll do  
as sleep will still not come to us  
   
close apart, we dare not fall  
from the tree that burns in season  
counting the rings of its poetry  
   
   
97.9°F/ 36.61°C  
   
the moon has set —  
I wake in the dark  
to the rush of wind  
   
I hear him rinsing off  
in the basin —  
we fall asleep before dawn    
   
   
   
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