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.
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