there in the late winter

she drove up once a week
to feed him collards,
pickled shrimp, macaroni,
and the goodness of their past.

he woke up just enough
to chew, and show her
that his mind was still
sharp as a tack.

asleep again, once
his head hit the pillow,
she would clear the dishes
and quietly pass away
into the afternoon drive.

he hadn't been in the home
long enough for it to be
the home he built
with his own hands.
the place he raised his kids
on one hundred acres
and two lakes kept
many children warm
with memories of summer
away from the world,
eating watermelon and listening
to crickets serenade life.

she was one of several
to be there to witness
the late winter of him,
humming in bites of collards,
and listening to life
in the loud halls
of nurses bustling
and intercom calls.
everyone who came
from outside brought
life into his heart,
even now, when he
was so tired that
he slept before
his head rested
on the pillow.