crammed with memories,
one in particular:
rising at the meadowlark’s song
to walk across the dew-drenched grass,
her feet bare and cold and wet,
humming little nonsense tunes
to greet the light, bolder now
than when she’d left the house,
turning to see him at the window,
her ancient father;
how small he looks,
how like a cattail reed,
brown and brittle
at summer’s end—
and then he is falling,
clutching at his breast,
sailing off beyond the morning light,
the midday light, every light
there ever was or will be.
Pulling her phone from her skirt
pocket, she calls her friend:
“It’s over now. Come.
Posted on June 4, 2017, in Arizona, poetry, Poetry Pantry, Poets United, Prescott, Ruby Tuesday Too, Sunday's Whirligig and tagged ancient, bare, breast, crammed, falling, friend, humming, light, rising, sailing, small, window. Bookmark the permalink. 15 Comments.