Psalm of Praise

The mother of a friend died
The impact slapped me
smack against the memory
of almost losing you.
Last winter's long calamity.
The bottom falling out of me.

Like film rewound,
replayed relentlessly,
the images rebound:
your stricken body
lying broken in the bed;
the bandages that hide the place
they opened in your head;
cold dread that seeps
into my bones;
the on-and-on of waiting rooms;
the grueling therapy;
the inch-by-inch,
miraculous recovery.

I know not where
to lay my gratitude.
Upon the moody lap of Chance,
or at the feet of Circumstance?
Shall I address it to a God
who acts on whim
or by some mystery divines
to take the mother of my friend
and leave me mine?
Or to the Spring that finally came
and gave you back to me?
Or to the Wind, or to the gods
of knives and medicine?

I only know
each time I phone
and hear your voice again,
a Psalm of Praise comes
pushing up in me;
a Glorious Litany runs
spilling through my veins.

-- Deb Cooper

Send Comments to Greg Gordon MD, CFI, cydoc@earthlink.net
Last updated: