I don’t know what I’ll do

when I can’t do the things I love to do.

I don’t know what I’ll say to friends

when they stop by.

Will I have the strength to care

and ask, how are you, what’s new?

Or will I look away and stare

up at the ceiling,

or look out the window,

then close my eyes,

whispering to myself,

“perhaps it’s time to die?”

Who knows if I’ll see clouds covering the sun,

or will I see the sun setting behind the trees,

admiring the glow,

wanting it to stay,

not wanting these moments to be done.

I don’t know what I’ll wish

when it’s harder to laugh,

harder to take a breath,

harder to touch my face,

my eyes, my lips,

harder to care about death,

or what will happen to my bones.

Today, I saw the daisies in the field,

so yellow and white, moving in the breeze.

I looked up at the trees surrounding this land,

so green, so full, so tall under the blue sky,

glad that I could see the colors

and smell and taste the air

coming through the open door.

I wonder if I’ll still ask those questions

without answers and chuckle

at my foolishness, say damn,

then take a breath,

perhaps my last,

then letting go,

wonder where I am.