The one hundred and thirteen year old ceilings
above our heads are falling
in white flakes that have no pattern.
I suppose it's useless to expect triangles
or squares, or even broken fractals,
brushed into a dustpan with some sadness
and recurring regret that I cannot fix
all that is depreciating with time.
Give us this day, give us this night when
filling the bird feeder and birdbath
brings streams of holy light, captured
surrounding you on a grey weathered chair
holding a black cat, purring.
Give us this day, give us this night when
you call out for your long dead father
or imagine I am asking you to fix
a broken stained glass angel or
the eternally dripping kitchen faucet.
Our weekdays are routine, which is to say
in theory, planned, but life in the Alzheimer's world
is hardly predictable...and I find myself
both angry and protective, hopeful
for small glimpses into your shuttered mind.
My prayers are for mercy and patience,
gratitude for those who are helpful
and at my worst, bless a book, a butterfly,
a persistent bird, a blue sky, a blue shirt,
bless your confused blue eyes.
Give us this day, give us this night
when a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich
makes you smile and you are content
underneath clean flannel sheets and
far too many blankets for me.