Mother at 75
Itís hard to write, but you still do,
Because you know that words from you
Make me feel better.
The hands that once were never still
Have long and lonely days to fill,
And write a letter.
You tell me little of your pain
But, rather, that itís spring again
And life is growing.
You say you sit there in your chair
And watch the tulips bow in prayer,
The sun all-knowing.
You and the sun enjoy the play
Of birds that love a day in May,
As is your pleasure.
And you breathe in the sweet perfume
Of life thatís just begun to bloom
And know its measure.
A tear might fall just now and then,
When memories creep around the bend
Without a warning.
So strong they take your breath away --
Could it be only yesterday
That it was morning?
But you donít linger on the lost,
Or what tomorrowís time might cost;
Today is better.
So while relaxing in your chair,
Observing beauty everywhere,
Write me a letter.
Donna J. Stone
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