The frozen drizzle fell upon the old snow Mounds and mounds like white waves frozen in place. But we sit, this morning in your dry, warm room; Storm-prone nature fading into a blur. You don't speak to me. Sometimes you'll look me in the eye and smile. A resident passes by and waves; you weakly wave back. Your foot moves in time to the background music. You are fading; life is passing in a blur. Slowly, relentlessly, the blur becomes a fog. You no longer look at me or wave to passersby. Your life fades away. Then the fog clears and life comes into sharp focus. Your soul soars on eagle's wings.
©2011, John A. Mills