Red Poem by Susan McMaster

Death is not red
in the cancer ward.
The vibrant red ivy
I bring you for fall
shrinks under fluorescence
into a bit of old tat
mistakenly dropped-
no rain or blue wind
carried in on the leaves
I prop in dry glass
knocked aside
by the friend
who bends over your bed
to catch
the last mutter
dry words
from dry lips

my handful of sun
rustles to the floor
rustles behind
as you pass
you pass

'pass through'
you pass