OConnor at Andalusia

　　by Floyd Skloot

　　 It came with the steady pace of dusk，

　　 slow shadings in the distance， a sense of light

　　 growing soft at the center of her body.

　　 It came like evening to the farm

　　 bearing silence and a promise of rest.

　　 There was nothing to say it was there

　　 till she found herself unable to move

　　 and stillness settled its net over the bed.

　　 A crimson disc of pain suddenly flushed

　　 from her hips like a last flaring of sun.

　　 She believed the time had come

　　 to welcome this perfect weakness

　　 that had no memory of strength，

　　 a mercy even as darkness hardened

　　 inside her joints. It was not to be

　　 missed. Nor was the mercy of sight：

　　 she believed the time had come

　　 to measure every moment and map

　　 the place she soon must leave.

　　 At least she had been given time，

　　 though her wish would have been

　　 an hour more for each leaf visible

　　 from her window， a day for trees，

　　 a week for birds and month to savor

　　 the voice of each friend who called.

　　 Though she never belonged in the heart

　　 of this world， she gave this world her heart.

　　 Within her stillness she remembered

　　 the first signs： that brilliant butterfly

　　 rash on her face， a blink that lasted

　　 for hours， the delicate embrace of sleep

　　 veering as in a dream toward the grip

　　 of death， hunger vanishing like hope.

　　 Her body no longer knew her body as itself

　　 but this too was a mercy. To leave herself

　　 behind and then return was instructive.

　　 To wax and wane， to live beyond

　　 the body and know what that was like，

　　 a gift from God， a mixed blessing shrouded

　　 in the common cloth of loss. Half her life

　　 she practiced death and resurrection.