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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