Friday, October 28, 2016


                                                                      REMEMBRANCE I
                                                                      a lone old woman—
                                                                      dried leaves swirling
                                                                      around her feet;
                                                                     she looks in my direction,
                                                                     and you return from a long way
                                                                      a bite in the wind—
                                                                      her hand lifts to secure
                                                                      her ruffled hair;
                                                                      from somewhere in memory
                                                                      you tell me to button up
                                                                       snow by morning—
                                                                       the old woman tightens her belt
                                                                       and shudders;
                                                                       I move to help her along,
                                                                       but she's lost in the shadows
                                                                       REMEMBRANCE II
                                                                       October's chill—
                                                                       from the old man's window
                                                                       leaves dying slowly,
                                                                       a beginning race with time
                                                                       and the weather
                                                                       all night the rain
                                                                       and the knocking wind—
                                                                       he speaks in whispers
                                                                       and waits for a morning
                                                                       that doesn't come
                                                                       clearing skies—
                                                                       the dull thud of damp earth
                                                                       on the coffin;
                                                                       how can a hundred and six years
                                                                       be confined in so small a space?
Ribbons, 2007


Bill said...

nursing home
a woman asks me
to guess her age

Actually happened. The right answer was 105.

These are two lovely groups.

Adelaide said...

Thank you, Bill. I always get sentimental in autumn; my mother died in November, and my father in October, 13 years later.