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.