Crazy Quilt

He dies, each day.

The sun in the corners of my world,

now gaunt, eyes vacant, eaten alive

by this plague.

Oh, god, the pain.

We were happy with everyday dreams,

then left with no faith, drained of hope

by this plague.

Don’t go, I beg.

A faint smile was all he could muster,

no words were spoken as he was taken

by this plague.

My life, my heart.

My love is no more than a small square,

a tiny piece of a crazy quilt made possible

by this plague.

By Ruth A. Souther - 1991

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