Ninety-nine enjoys a bit of sun,
Installed upon the terrace in her chair.
Nestled in her heavy woolen coat,
Extra-heavy scarf tucked round her throat,
The tiny figure relishes the air,
Yielding to a moment come undone.
Now she cannot feel the current run;
Inside, the heart holds still, just barely there.
Nothingness and being become one
Even as the end remains remote.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon