In Praise of Endings
When Mom discovered
Dad's jaded eye,
she barred the door
on maltreatment.
When she consented
to leave the farm,
our last day of hard labor
in the cotton fields
flaked the dust off our boots.
When Dad's drinking
got out of hand,
she drew a new line
in her own gritty sand.
His constant discontent
gouged tattered holes
in Mama's peace.
When Daddy died early,
her bondage sailed
down a river of freedom.
In her advanced years,
Mom's overworked bones
paid tribute
in spasms of pain.
Death, for her,
marked the end of struggle.
She said the angels were singing.
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