the unsettled gorge

I am used to the wind filling in
the cracks of doors and insisting
the tree tap tap tap on
my bedroom window

or sitting with me, waiting for
my eyes to catch up to the
falling sun, brushing the heat
from my face

this endless flow that could fill
songs of Ben and Loch for you, Mother
enough air and breeze to move
cloud and Highland rain

has me puzzled
that with such strength
it would choose to flop lazily in
your throat while the buzz of the
hospital lights wash
away your scent