only one month in
the word came in the room
and she felt the burn
of loss before the fight began
unknown still
ungrown, wrapped in soft
flannel just gazing
into her face
and already
broken
What could she do but,
try and cry
and look about
and whisper
Why?
A road of hope
with odds recited
uninvited reality
knocks each time
new skin against her lips
she dreams of bliss
of still knowing her child
as she grows old
the word came in the room
and she felt the burn
of loss before the fight began
unknown still
ungrown, wrapped in soft
flannel just gazing
into her face
and already
broken
What could she do but,
try and cry
and look about
and whisper
Why?
A road of hope
with odds recited
uninvited reality
knocks each time
new skin against her lips
she dreams of bliss
of still knowing her child
as she grows old
2 comments:
It looks lke a spammer picked up your blog! Anyway, your poem reminded me of "My Son, My Executioner" by Donald Hall although your theme is ultimately different. If you'd like, I can email you the Hall poem. (NJ)
yes...email me the poem...thank you!!
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