Elegy
Linda Pastan


Last night the moon lifted itself
on one wing,
over the fields,

and struggling to rise
this morning
like a hooked fish

through watery 
layers
of sleep,

I know 
with what difficulty
flowers

must pull themselves
all the way up 
their stems.

How much easier
the free fall of snow
or leaves in their season.

All week, watching
the hospital gown
rising

and falling
with your raggedy breath,
I dreamed

not of resurrections
but of the slow, sensual
slide each night

into sleep, of dust,
of newly shovelled earth
settling.