Sixty Degrees and Clear

Sixty degrees and clear.
She dies -morning hospice shift
while I’m getting ready 
to visit her.
Waxen in her white bed,
arms bruised and quiet now,
mouth wide in a gasp
as if in scream, as if saying
ah, no!  Both eyes closed,
turned down for my visit,
denied all further light,
sky or even ceiling.
I touch her hand. It is
cold.  It’s only been
two hours. At the threshold
I see the elevator.
I’m not ready 
to drop down that tunnel.
I go back and kiss her forehead.  
Outside, the clear light types her life.