My dying sister writes a new book

Being with Whabiz
Was being connected to the world's womb
Food fell from the skies thrice daily
No wonder I dreamt loaves and fish on leaving her

Her arts were home making and gardening
Until she was too ill to do either
Our bodies are gardens we grow for another's use
And then we die...

So she took to writing her last years
And books grew leaves and flew
Or rose like bread in ovens
She no longer delves nor sews

And where she lives now it seldom snows
The sky is always clear
As a heart that forgives in writing
And then the eye clouds over....