I will bring you red apples

I will bring you concord grapes,
for you like the color of them

I will cut the meat for you,
in razor thin slices

the nurses tell me
to let you feed yourself
to gain your strength
back

but you and I know
your arms become more flaccid each passing night,
and no amount of measured movement,
will make that right

I will make the soft cloth wet,
caress the dirt away, for they scrub you
like canvas, painted all wrong
I will brush your hair,
a hundred strokes
as you did

I will read you stories
of children at play

I will bring apples
for your wooden bowl,
to help us remember red, round things,
beginnings, in a world before this room
of endless ending 

by Jim Cunningham