In your hospital room
we fall in love again
with the sky, its spring
cloudscape to the west,
its vast expanse,
variation on
the theme of
nebula.
The small machine
that sends vapor—a
cloud of mist—to
your lungs is a
nebulizer.
Outside on
the first days
you are here
the mist is gray,
chill, pervasive,
inhospitable,
despite the stabs
of pink dogwood
opening in
the park next to
the hospital, or
the grape hyacinths’
violet interruptions
of greening grass.
You ask me to open
the blinds, you search
for the right light
to photograph
the delicate vase
of daffodils,
species tulip
a friend brings.
At home, in our
neglected garden,
crocus, narcissus,
jonquils open white
or yellow petals,
thrust gold or rose
throats into chilly
air. Amid the chaos,
disintegration of
illness, we hold
on to the art, the
beauty we create,
pervasive mist.