Written in the doctor's waiting room,
her note contained three questions and a poem:
How many more cobalts, approximately?
What sort of injections? and why big tummy?
Time has trodden heavily through mires;
longevity itself bears healing powers.
Birth, a miracle which needs no "whys;"
Death, far back in a drawer of the mind,
brought out in sadness, then folded away in time
to hide the "forever," not for us the steady
with all our tomorrows, tomorrows, stacked and ready.