Deeply Given

The photographer's light catches the little things,
the minute changes of a brow,
the uplifted smile,
the filtered light dancing behind the curtains.

But I am ungrounded
unable to dress
or brush my hair,
find the phone,
or walk in the light-filled autumn woods.

How suddenly my eyes tear up
though I am so relieved
the pain and weekly infusions finally over,
the only way out — the way of light and dust.

Madly searching through photos
for her smile, her warmth,
the time—
I find each of our lives reflected.

Realizing her profession
was us and all of ours
her success hard won
often unrewarding
yet truer than many others.

Nonjudging heart and hands
always working for those who needed
stitching together all those outside
despite moans of little girls
the other side of cool, folding all in like sweet batter.

Her choices magnified,
and scattered like light through a crystal
a million sparkling gems, each differing hues
spreading across time.

It's the little things,
like why did I get rid of that black dress?
when shall I leave?
open casket or closed?
and how now will I call,
wordless,
the shimmering wisdom of her life-deeply given?