By Alan Rowland
For four months, I lay in bed, mute, unable to speak, nor to care for myself in any way. I watched the Iraq war, every day -- indeed ALL day, in 'shock and awe', as my waning strength would allow. I stared 'death' in his empty, shark eyes.
I allowed no one to see me, no one except my partner, John, who dealt as best he could with my illness. I was convinced I would lose the battle, as the bombs fell on Baghdad.
Would I ever see another day, another moon?
.....The miracle was, I survived.
The miracle was, I was able finally to begin to write.
The miracle was,
I saw each day slowly unfold; and once again I saw the moon rise and pass through its phases in time I never thought I would have.
Artist and writer Alan Rowland worked for many years in New York City as an illustrator and art director until a seriously debilitating illness robbed him of the use of both hands. Five years ago he moved to the countryside in southern New Jersey, where he began to write poetry about health, illness, art and loss. This image was created by Colorado-based artist Julie Adair to accompany Alan Rowland’s poem. He is very grateful to her for her help.