Sometimes
in meditation I find I
can’t remember the one
who opened my gates of compassion:
her voice, her smile, her quiet
griefs that I found strewn
all over the floor as I walked
again, slowly
to her hospital
bed.
The
last time we spoke
she wanted to meet me outside
“Right now,” she said, “let’s go.”
Meet me downstairs.
Held
still,
alone—
in such awareness of the hour of the day, I
slowly cry.
metonymy4u 
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