Mother's Death

A source of poetry and art, of keen wit and generosity, slipped past our touch. On Sunday morning, having seen The crocuses begin, she left her frail house And her sudden leaving had less to do With our ideas than with the green arrival. No sins evicted her; they troubled us Who pray for special favors to ease The pain of stark equality; And nothing we could have done Would have stopped her going Or the crocus coming. Ritual euphemisms made Our sad task bearable; We were numb and practical Beside our private loss. Yet she is done with that which upsets us. She paid in suffering for more Than chartered life could give; And God, who weighs all, will use this balance As needed--elsewhere.