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Poem

I hold my little new born child  
who is born in a hospital
in a town where tumbleweeds roll mild   
the Cancer has been staged, its terminal 
incurable and running wild 

every hair on his head is counted 
every toe accounted for 
I think about all the strength surmounted
for this jewel in my pinafore 
and hear his loud sharp cry, undaunted;  

rage of angels rap at my chest door    
as I fade away into his heart beat,  
the lion comes for his feeding chore;
Oh those eyes of finest wheat,   
how they draw me in aside the shore  

and move me to a place of Grace.      
The curtain closes and I weep    
inside my ventricle, his memorized face   
I pray to God my soul to keep,  
then glide away, to another place.    


September 6, 2021 

Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Contest Name	Quintain (Sicilian)

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