This Alzheimer’s Morning by Steven M. Smith

When she woke, she asked me who I was.
So once again I told her I am her morning—and more.
Then I asked her after breakfast to paint a poem—
just a little poem to be brushed on a canvas
of dawn that can be hung on the walls
of the little time left of mornings.
In the painted poem I asked her to let
us watch the nudge of a sunrise
from a familiar back porch
as a red cardinal swoops out
of an evergreen toward a lawn
emerging from the shade.