Blizzard of pain circulates, bleeds red ink
splashes the pane of this squeezing scene.
Words spill out, as if they could or should
somehow arrange themselves into a syntactical
formula rather than the word, “Help!”
Elevator doors open from hell lead to years
of lonely corridors, depending on dementia’s
snowstorms, depth of snow, whiteouts.
My mother dreams of the dead:
They keep appearing but I don’t remember
what they are saying.
In my dream she walks away from me,
leaving no footprints in the snow.
Grey Sparrow Journal 