Post-Op

    Here, calm nurses reign
    and sagacious doctors, majestic in white
    confer and scurry about.
    Green lines track and blip across the screens
    that measure breath, groans, heartbeat,
    evidence of this, your latest resurrection.
    Outside, a pastoral scene
    meadows bursting upwards
    jubilant with spring, seed-heavy,
    fragrant with a million
    scarlet flowers, haven of finches
    and twittering, earth-bound things.
    Your own sap blooms
    through scars and crimson bandages
    and leaking rivulets, missed by errant nurses.
    A clock ticks softly
    reminding us what’s left
    and other certainties of time
    that all must pass this way and be bereft.
    Beyond the window other lives
    unfold in play
    and idle cattle stand
    then nomad clouds, a caravanserai
    in convoy voyage aimlessly across indifferent sky.
    The white sheet immaculate
    hides your grief and wounds.
    A pulse flutters briefly in your neck
    a trapped insect trying to get out.
    You lie, waiting
    inert upon the bed,
    pale Lazarus, companion-friend,
    returning from the dead.

       – Jogyata. (Source)