She won’t reach thirty;
it’s what cancer does, steals time.
There’s so much to see
when the future shrinks to a fall of snow.
But she lies in a room stacked
with dust subdued photos
of superficial memories
and pretend smiles.
Closed curtains are thought to be appropriate,
yet she stares at a slice of sunlight
creeping across the room’s sundial.
Perhaps winter’s snowflakes will not arrive
and daffodils will open to a beckoning sky.
She prays for an early spring.
Rowland Hughes ©