Look into darkness, organic form
multiplying within my own body – alive –
portending life diminishment, slowly
as autumn, harbinger of winters night,
passes in slanting shadows
across the landscape of my time.

Write of movement hidden within
from strangers under layers of skin
vital organs, blood vessels – layers thin
as fluttering veils masking passage
of  dark and microscopic growth.

Write, poet, words about cancer –
verse inclined towards disease and decay;
give voice to the realm of dying –
cancer’s voice whispering in a breeze
as the far horizon approaches.

Turn not away from this messenger nor
withhold forgiveness for your own body;
do not fear to imagine cellular movement
becoming aware of its presence
sensing in its curves and contours
labyrinthine confusion inside your warm body
coursing as well through wakening thoughts
finding ways into sleep and dreams.

Listen to cancer speaking in echoes
rising from deep and sonorous wells
telling stories from ancient pools
where life began, formed in wombs,
already there, in fertile green places
so like the burgeoning spaces
in which it now resides
on a still autumn afternoon.

Speak, poet, of what is in you
settling down as if in a field of grass
blowing in the breezes of sunset.
Say to the blown grass “here I am.”
Welcome, dark fruit of my being,
stranger from an unknown land.
Sit by my fire, share my bed,
feast on the riches of my life;
stay with me as the leaves fall
and wait with me as winter comes…
then you may go your way
with my blessing – only pray
you not take me with you when you go.

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Portland, Oregon – October 3, 2016, eve of the feast of St. Francis.

In answer to your question: Yes, I do.  So far, it looks to be treatable and probably curable, so I have hope and for the long term.  As I read this, it seems darker than I feel.  But, in writing, I feel I have to face this thing.  Thus, it is no different than anything I write as a poet.  It is about looking at one thing in an attempt to evoke the holy, however you or I may conceive of it.