It was always evening when they arrived
to lay their ponderous flimsiness
against her dying. They were indifferent
to my full-fleshed vigilance
in the recliner next to her bed.  

My mother, without strength to lift
a plastic cup to her mouth, dust an eyelash
from the bone of her cheek  
with the limp petal of her hand, would raise
both wraith-thin arms around the air above her
to pull an invisible weight closer, closer
then let out a low one-note hum.  

It was early this morning, just as daylight
began its gradual dripping of color  
onto the Allegheny greens and blues
outside her window that her arms 
reached to the ceiling, held
the spirited air between them.