Mother, Edith, at 98

by | May 24, 2009 | Poetry | 0 comments

Edith, in this nursing home

blinded with macular degeneration,

I come to you with your blurry

eyes, crystal sharp mind,

your countenance of grace−

as yesterday’s winds

I have chosen to consume you

and take you away.

“Oh, where did Jesus disappear

to”, she murmured,

over and over again,

in a low voice

dripping words

like a leaking faucet:

“Oh, there He is my

Angel of the coming.”


Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *