Happy with little and still
her eyes are cloudy
the cataracts
she won’t have removed
because of the scalpel
the children
won’t understand
there can be no knives
in this life now
light has moved
from the eye to her face
happy with little
and still, living there
the laughter of her children’s children
rises over the lake
and she catches
the father of each in the flame
of memory, every bright hair of them
gleaming in the suneap
2 comments:
"the father of each in the flame
of memory, every bright hair of them
gleaming in the sun"
I always think I can see you coming toward me, and it's only at the last moment I see out of the corner of my eye that you're already there. You sure have a way with this kind of image.
And you have a way with responding to a poem, as well as writing them!
Love.
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