The Biographer

By now I know my way
through this holy hospice
and yet a shrouded sister
insists, gliding silently ahead
and my feet, suddenly clumsy
on the stone floor, follow.

Rain christens the
saintly windows
of her white room.

She seems to sleep,
arms above the blankets,
narrow hands resting
palms down like two halves
of a prayer parted by doubt.

I am back once more to prompt
her memories and write
her long life in shorthand.
Later a book
before her illness wins.

Beside the bed, a photograph,
a radiant young woman.
It is she before the years
of heartache.

But now, her Easter Island face
lies in repose, scanning
her remarkable life from behind
her blue veined eyelids.

The old eyes open
sparking a smile of recognition.
“Where were we?”