Monday, April 30, 2012

           Easter Mom~

Mouth an orange-slice,
Once a hard apple,
Faltering step,
And brass stilettos,
Now tarnished.

A mess of red hair,
Like a nest of,
Bright flowers,
Fades out of
Light, now too pale.
The hem of her dress,
Is now in tatters.

Her gait though,
Portrays irony worthy of a grand prize.
Boldly straight-backed,
Her cause of dignity,
Can be viewed finally,
As her arms open-

Two little Easter baskets rest, on their crook ~

They are so small,
That they were looked over.

In this woman’s spirit, pride even
When, beauty’s passed,
Two children in her mind.

How loved must these
Two be. They see no dilapidation in
Their mother’s appearance. And she
Knows this is deleted from their sight.

Perhaps she can’t see the change, either.
For after all, our eyes go bad
As we age. God must have
Made it so
For a reason.

Children are naturally blind.

                        Ah well.

If only we were more like them.

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