Intern in Winter

What a privilege, what a trial

this stripping down to spirit and shell

strange untethering from all we've been

threads that stitch us whole, undone

together in the upside-down of

no-day

day-night

Turkey-Christmas-New Year's

dinner on a tray

we gained a new sense,

somewhere between sight and hope

scent and despair

to touch

feel the fabric of all we do

texture of smoke, beautiful trickery

excuse me a moment

while I set about my task:

not to write orders,

no physical exam,

but spin a just story

from a throng of ragged strands

Once, flipping back to days

a blessed ray of morning light

stopped

me

and it came to me

like the clearest memory of a dream:

Healing is the writing we do

to make illness and dying a story worth believing.