My mother lies in bed, trying to die.                  
Eight years have passed, morning     
the same as evening,
and all the hours seconds minutes between them
lean and empty.                                     
My mother wouldn't give the time of day
to flowers and all that blooming nonsense,
the beauty of nature, lightning storms.
Eight years and not one moment has made her            
any the wiser, raised her up on her feet
or restored her will power,
the Joy of Labor, the power to recall       
something so vital to her being
as the Ethical Precepts of Judaism.
My mother lies in bed, trying to die.
Suddenly she rises up like a lioness           
in protest, and says without speaking: I've had my fill
I've had it with living
in the days to come
in the year to come
all the glorious flowers in the Galilee will just have to grow
without me.