In the wintry square

of a clinic's walls

he lay there

on the second floor.



Uncle helped him

to some red.

I couldn't

help but notice;

cancer made

his skull

seem small,

my hand cupping

his head.


Christmas eve, twenty-fourth,

we were singing that psalm

my uncle and I

while my mother stood by.

All the while

white snow

ever so slowly

fell from the sky.


In a car

on the eve

of Christmas Day,

we tried to get there

in time.


The motor stopped.


And the snow

fell ever so

slowly as we

sang that psalm.