Tend

I gather fallen limbs,
handle brittle lichened bones
with reverence,
returning them
to the base of their tree.
It is a privilege to warm the cloth,
to clean the hands of a child,
to wipe the face of a loved one
who can no longer.
I tend to the dying tree
knowing one day
this will be me.

When I cannot
hold the spoon to my own mouth,
when the soup spills,
when I am spilling over,
when my body no longer
contains me
may someone hold me,
hold the cup to my lips,
hold the paper to my pen,
hold me while I fall.