GROUNDED: Elegy for Misty

Elizabeth Schultz
June 2006

“Death,” she greeted the figure
with the square-toed boots,
“You can have my death.
But not my life. Not any of it.”
Her feet stamped the ground
She staggered forward
in the arms of friends to touch,
once more, the intricate carpet
where Babylon’s gardens bloomed.
Her feet stayed on the ground.
She put a stop to fluids,
but kept a fountain in her room,
rippling day and night like
the sea against island shores.
Her feet dug into the ground.
She yearned for water’s sweet
caress, remembering parched
deserts, and friends slid
with her into a long cool bath.
Her feet held to the ground.
She no longer saw the birds
outside her windows, but she
felt their flutter in the air,
as she stretched out in light,
with her feet firm on the ground.
She kept Phil’s hand in hers
for hours, and he held hers.
When he left, just momentarily,
she decided she would, too.
But her feet were on the ground.
When she seized that last day,
she lay in the midst of friends,
in the dignity and peace
she wishes for everyone of us,
for her feet have never left the ground.