I will praise the hollow husk of my body, 

ancient though it is.

I will praise my shivering bones,

though they are as brittle as dying summer reeds.

I will praise the poems of my hands,

perfect and endless. 

I will praise the patience of my lungs,

which have not given up yet,

though they are tired, so tired.

I will praise my tissue-paper skin,

which, if you squint at it just right,

looks like a map of the past that will guide you home,

if only you remember the way.

I will praise my heart, my heart of stained glass

that is still pumping, still singing the song 

of blood and rhythm and life,

even though it sometimes forgets how to beat.

I will praise the weak sputters of sunlight

that slip and drip through the cracks in my dusty blinds.

I will praise the parched petals and crumpled stems

of the flowers someone left in a vase on the table.

I will praise my strength,

though there is not much of it anymore,

though what is left is slowly leaking out

through the cracks and hollows of my soul.

I will praise life, though I am dying.