O'Connor at Andalusia

    It came with the steady pace of dusk，

    slow shadings in the distance， a sense of light

    growing soft at the center of her body.

    It came like evening to the farm

    bearing silence and a promise of rest.

    There was nothing to say it was there

    till she found herself unable to move

    and stillness settled its net over the bed.

    A crimson disc of pain suddenly flushed

    from her hips like a last flaring of sun.

    She believed the time had come

    to welcome this perfect weakness

    that had no memory of strength，

    a mercy even as darkness hardened

    inside her joints. It was not to be

    missed. Nor was the mercy of sight：

    she believed the time had come

    to measure every moment and map

    the place she soon must leave.

    At least she had been given time，

    though her wish would have been

    an hour more for each leaf visible

    from her window， a day for trees，

    a week for birds and month to savor

    the voice of each friend who called.

    Though she never belonged in the heart

    of this world， she gave this world her heart.

    Within her stillness she remembered

    the first signs： that brilliant butterfly

    rash on her face， a blink that lasted

    for hours， the delicate embrace of sleep

    veering as in a dream toward the grip

    of death， hunger vanishing like hope.

    Her body no longer knew her body as itself

    but this too was a mercy. To leave herself

    behind and then return was instructive.

    To wax and wane， to live beyond

    the body and know what that was like，

    a gift from God， a mixed blessing shrouded

    in the common cloth of loss. Half her life

    she practiced death and resurrection.