The Saint
Down a dim hallway of my father's last homeShe was sitting in the same place each time
I came, in her wheelchair near a window
That looked out on nothing but the wall
Of another wing, another one-way window
Of waiting for something no longer known.
The little light fell on her wispy white hair
And it seemed to float there above her face
Like dust motes, or the shimmering halo
In a Renaissance painting of a saint
Looking past her mortal agony to certain grace.
What she was seeing then was not of this world.
But most, I can't forget her mottled hand
Trembling on the blanket in her lap, how
In a sudden numb stroke was flipped on its back
Like a turtle, the grasping gestures of turning,
How her fingers clutched and cupped the air,
Trying to hold on, endlessly slipping away.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 609 times
Written on 2010-11-21 at 14:35
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Lawrence Beck |
|
shells |
|
josephus |
|
John Ashleigh |
