Disease was spreading on the lawn.
In the house she occupied
she was growing up to find the snails
and slugs sucking on the leaves; important
to their survival was the death of what they loved.
And how, in the morning’s chill,
it reminded her of a man she saw once
floating in the lake, not dead but passive
in his acceptance of where the water took him.
She was frightened, not ever knowing a man
who drifted so, without that drive
that kept some from thinking of death
or the force to love a stranger’s life.
She watched him for hours, not desiring
him but what he desired, that restfulness
in motion, the ability to take in
whatever sun there was. Then he passed away
from her sight, she was left with an image
of hopelessness, how she’d have to move
from what she loved, continuously, in and out
of the sight of others who passed their time
with her or gave the passing chance to leave
the world she lingered in, that luxury
of leisure which made thoughts of future
loss so wrong to think about, so hard to try.