Becoming the Poetry

 

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My mother has been ill.
I am as empty of poetry
as a milkweed pod
whose silk and seed have flown.
 
Still standing as erect as a tree,
it has outlived its use
but holds in its greyness
memories of beauty.
 
My mother is ill.  She reaches
out her arms and says plainly
“I want to live life
like other people.”
 
My mother has been ill.
She has become the poetry.
No other words are needed
than the ones she gives me.
 

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2024 Susan L. Chast