Blossoms of fear

I'm staring at your face --
so beloved,
so familiar now,
and listening as the words speed by --
squamous,
basal,
melanoma --
each carrying
its brace of threat,
potential pain
blended with
a hint of punishment
for a life well-lived,
for time spent
dozing in the sun
when there may have been
work to be done

(I always so admired that; your willingness to step away and rest)

-- and tiny imperfections,
never seen before
begin to loom and grow,
blossoms of fear,
echoing in small bursts of feeling
from deep within my chest.
"I guess my body's breaking down," you say
and somewhere there's a flower screaming,
whether at the inevitable droop of petals
or at the scissors, or the knife -- I cannot say,
my eye so caught
by that one blackened anther
and all that it suggests
may lie ahead...