for Tony H

Your canary no longer sings.
Its empty beak is filled with foam,

wounded by the body’s unfortunate guest,
a softness disease has taught us.

When color of the sky found us silent;
before illness captivated you, reminding

me of when that hard rain came & we
walked around the block, hands clasped,

as the chemo froze every word, and 
we talked to simply stay warm.

If Love is a language that doesn’t exist
until conceived by a bounding sound, rising

in your chest, we’ll put you to bed to sleep
& dream behind an ethereal curtain.

Holding beauty is hard, especially when your
hands are hurting from the strain of letting go.

– Kevin LeMaster