Before the hospital gown reduces me with its designed indignity,
 before the relatives form their waiting room knots,
 well before the waits for test results--
While we are still capable of driving to see birds,
 while we are still able to see each other, and
 hold in the mornings--

Let me tell you of my love.

My love is a picnic meadow guarded by stout trees,
 filled with calf-high grass;
It is mid-morning and I am as grey as you.
We sit upon the ground, spreading our tablecloth.

James Bolner, Sr.
August, 1994