This is what she said:
“Don’t stop what you are doing.
Don’t chase after me 
in a hurry; find someone 
to talk to...you understand?”

On the couch near me
linked to a large canister 
of oxygen, survival
measured not in days but hours,
she pulled petals from their roots,

stripped new buds from limbs,
turned this old world on its ears,
made release a vow
holy as the Earth itself,
turned the key in manacles.

A faint, final smile
added words she did not say,
soft lips made no sound,
blue eyes summoned a sermon
I heard in deep heart’s encore.

Bio: Thomas F. Sheehan