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She is alone on the hill of dying flowers,
And there she stands, a mourning glory,
Wrapped tightly in black lace and midnight silk,
A sad ending for such a lovely story.
I touch my mother’s hand and we watch,
As the beautiful old woman seems to elevate,
For, my lovely grandmother, she is the queen,
Of all things that are delicate.
Her papery skin loose over frail bones,
Her bright eyes slowly turning gray,
Like a dusty set of china, they stare,
Silently willing me to stay.
The snow-white rose kissed with winter
Hangs beautifully in her hand,
Her long, thin fingers hold it close,
Like the scepter with which she rules this land.
As I stand by her I can just see,
A single, quiet, and heartfelt tear,
Leak down her face, dusted with makeup,
Washing away the mask that hides her fear.
I take her feeble hand in mine,
And feel the soft lace of her gloves,
The gentle touch of an angel,
The warm touch of the angel of love.
We walk to the grave, the darkest place,
A chilly hole in the upturned soil,
As we both set our ashen roses atop,
The casket with metal carvings like foil. .
And we walk on this November day,
As loving members of family do,
I pull her close and kiss her cheek,
I smile and say, “I’ll miss him too.”
 Morgana The Heartless · Sun Jul 08, 2007 @ 10:05pm · 0 Comments |
