Breasts are giving organs.
Suckling babies,
cushions for comfort,
a delight to behold,
joy to a lover.

The sun, shrouded in gray clouds
cannot lighten the breast-imaging center
where a gray silence prevails.
The faces of the gowned women are gray,
and fear, a raw lonely gray,
has wandered into the eyes of the waiting.
Will the lump be benign or malignant?

Solace is offered
by a smile, a consoling word,
the squeeze of a hand.
Recalling mother's giving milk,
each drop a healing hope.