The Grande Finale
Amy Lyn Miller
A blizzard of thoughts, questions, decisions.
Trying to ignore the excruciating truths.
I, the gracious host to the deadly thing.
In the month of March, the season of rebirth,
nature saps my life to give to the wild.
My essence is a donation, tax exempt.
For weeks I've thought of plans to make
to help the surviving, to arrange the wake.
With nothing done, thinking hurts.
Each new idea nourishing the virus.
It continues to grow in size, grow in strength.
I am a candle,
my wick has been lit.
People tiptoeing words,
undisturbing the flame.
The end is near;
the end I
fear.
