She was a mother to us all,
though nothing in her married life
had left her room to gather strength
for promised storms that surely would
descend upon the lucky ones
at random by the silly hand of God.

The night his time had come she sat,
legs crossed in tailor's pose and stared
into a stack of magazines to find
a virgin crossword puzzle, still unmarked.
She licked, as she had always done
the pencil, though it was a useless act

and frowned to find the words to fit
into the maze of printed squares.
It occupied your time and kept you still
while he began to struggle with his God.
You knew, of course, that time begets futility
and that the die was cast, tonight. At last.

No one expected you to help the dying man,
and you were company to him, though unbeknownst.
He was the doctor, after all, no longer in command
a stranded carp now loudly gasping for some air.
So, what's the word that starts with 'd' and means the end?

Well, it was late and she was smarter in the day.
The bell would toll in time, it was so much to ask
of her, the little woman who had lived, and never mused
about the shadow of his mind that ruled the clan
and had assigned a fitting pecking order place
where ears are welcome and all questions obsolete.

An icy breeze blew in and briefly cut her cheeks,
she closed the magazine, the puzzle now complete.
Her face a mask, it matched the linen on their bed.
It was a whisper now...... 'so, is he really dead? '

Herbert Nehrlich

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-puzzle-over/