The last day (the white poem)

My daughter nearly died one year ago, this is a poem about that experience.

In the weeks that I've been making this daily walk to the hospital:

The fruit growing in these trees have turned
from white to blush pink, Now over-ripe and
laying on the ground they pop and Squelch
under my feet the rancid smell Surprising.

I walk across the bridge with the love locks, and stand for a moment to watch the cars blur as they pass below. Always a master of self-talk I tell myself over and over again, I have to be brave and face what lies ahead

the Muse statues silently watch the street below, where the Ghost-white bike adorned
in flowers is tethered to a pole. A tribute to
a woman who once lived and died here.

At the hospital, the nurses tell me that the respirator is almost at its Limit and that the prone position is a last resort. Their voices fade, I focus on the purple-brown Petechiae that is In stark contrast to the crisp white sheets.

I look out the window at an imposing gray wall and count all the tomorrow's that were stolen by the achromatic, sterility of near death. I lean closer to the window on my tiptoes and crane my neck looking for a sliver of blue sky. I wonder if today is the last day.

Author's Note

This is a poem I've been working on for a year. It's almost done but I'm not sure if the transitions are clear and not confusing