Like a dry dead driftwood hiding in the creek-fork
Stumbling in, and breaking the swift currents
Currents of Creation
Step in to gather debris, busy, happy
Carefully crafting a little island
Of moss and plants and every sudden material
Floating at the banks in careless abandonment.
Today, in this little firmament of my infirmary
Currents of creation
Circulate
In deep, focused care
Of me.
Tender hands on my forehead
Gauging warmth.
Anxious wide awake eyes
Wondering about my insomnia.
Even the morning light
Tip toes in, careful not to wake me.
Plates of tasteless wholesomeness
Appealing against taste
Pleading nourishment
Tidying all the untidiness
My unwell unruly life generates.
Smoothing my sheets
Ready for yet another sleepless night of
Endless care
I am the driftwood that created this island.
Of whispered voices
Worried glances
Wavering, soft, touches.
The currents of my life are haltingly
Revolving within a world
Feverishly, far removed from the world outside.
The flash flood is near
That will someday set this little island adrift
Waves of exalted, unfettered. nursed-back life
Will set this little room free of care
Leaving behind a mist of matchless, emollient, memories.
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