as mother lay dying

As Mother Lay Dying (from a title prompt found in the NY Times, 5.22.14)


As mother lay dying her spirit becomes art.
I watch the water bubble on her lip, soft wave foam on a storm-tossed sea.
Her body rocks like a boat carrying her to another place.
Beneath the light fleece blanket, her hand tightens into a fist, open, closing.
I pull it out from beneath, watching the spasmatic movement settle into an open plam.
She lifts it slightly, moving it sideways like a queen’s wave to her court.
She is adventuring out, away from me,
Going forward with a slight smile of wonder on her ash-blue face.