My mother, light as paper, stands,
folds, crumples to the floor.
Yellowed parchment skin inked in
purple orbs and reddened tears, evidence
of failed attempts to hold on.
Her feathery body sleeps heavy
against knocks at her door, barely knows
anymore the call of her name.
She does not stir as I press my lips to her cheek,
my love into her heart,
stroke her hair or feet, wondering where she goes
when she sleeps.
Is she walking somewhere in light-filled fields of gold?
Is she speaking in hushed tones with dear ones passed on?
Is she tending the roses of God?
Will someone tell me please?
I want to know if when she awakes,
something of her stays behind in that world
for her to come home.
© 2013 ~ S. Wolfington
June 3, 2013 at 4:24 am
Then I’ve succeeded. Thank you, Tom.
June 2, 2013 at 11:27 pm
Congratulations, you hit this one out of the park. So well put in verse, I feel your empathy, you capure it in print so magnificently.