I dream some spring
and see the play of sun
and shadow on the ordered rows
of a vast and verdant field.

It is not that now, of course.
Just the sun, pushing through
the swaying cherry tree
spills warmth through a window
over a tacky old, brownish chair,
his human resting place---
he follows the rays that paint
some color on his winter-white arm.

I let the light, its buttery glow
wash my hands.
Please, God, how can you ever let me die?
I am still needed.

Marjon van Bruggen
May 2016