by Richard Stopps
O sweet rose, blooming a short season in our lives.
Hope in the wait, that you might stay a longer summer
Fear that you might leave, still numbered on the list.
Hope in the hours and hours of surgery.
Fear of waiting in the drugged coma of ICU
Hope awake, chalkboard in hand.
Hope intubated; hope extubated.
And a sudden unexpected pirouette in Death's dance,
And you are gone beyond human recall;
Gone to that far country, close to his heart, but oh, beyond ... touch.
A rose, whose petals fell before her season,
Where now His heart in the absence of HOPE, sees only DESPAIR
Speak to his heart; that you are as near as his memory.
As close as your shared dreams
I am afraid... for the sons of men are sometimes fragile... when they lose HOPE.
It is hard for men to speak to men
of shared fears and shared hopes
But I would have him know of the HOPE & PEACE of that far country...