Wayward Wind

My patient, Paul, wrote in a poem

that he belongs to the wayward wind,

a restless breed,

a strange and hardy class.

I’ve been with him for two years

and now he is dying.

“Are you in pain, Paul?” I ask.

“I AM pain,” he said.

But he is refusing medication

although his cancer has spread

from his kidneys to his lungs, brain and bones.

Somehow bearing this pain to the grave

is his last act of defiance/bravery/repentance.

My hands are tied.

My job now is to protect his choice

and later as promised

to collect his ashes,

read his poems in my garden

then set him free in the wind

where he belongs.

Belinda Subraman