This poem is not about Diabetes; Steven was killed by a hit-run driver years ago. The connection is that apparently the stress triggered my Type 1 Diabetes. This poem began in my dreams around the anniversary of his January death.
Steven's Haiku
Hostess womb: my son,
born on summer's equinox.
A life of searching.
Introspective, he
wore black and loved the Cloisters.
Yet he danced all night.
He died in winter.
His friends mourning: no answers.
A year with no spring.
Trudy
