The Nurse’s Hand

How gentle the nurse’s hand,

at the back and under the knee;

how gentle the nurse’s words

as they press in on panic.

They put the flowers just so,

pat the sheets so the chin is at rest,

take the weight and touch the brow.

They know the patients know

that death is at the door;

that it may enter at any time

to steal breath, a heartbeat;

that its presence, today, is not wanted;

tomorrow, it may be welcome.

Come, Death, someone is waiting

to cross The Divide.

Careful as you go with a friend so dear

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