On My Brother's Porch

Late summer morning light

paints twelve shades of green

on the grass rolling away from the house,

in the leaves lifting, turning to faint breezes.

One big blonde dog sits beside me,

questions in her intelligent eyes.

The other leans against my leg,

his heavy head in my lap,

too anxious to bring me his ball.

The steam from my coffee

wafts into the silent house,

searching.

Soon I must go back to my vigil.

But for this moment

the insistent cicada song in the trees

muffles the equally relentless clicks

of the respirator,

the alarming dings of monitors,

the steady beep of the

heart pump.

Sybilla

8/23/15