Visiting Mother's Grave
The words of a poem,
like the notes of a song,
often fall flat, or off key.
Today, words
reached toward clouds,
floated on soft winds
with haunting notes.
The sad of honest pain
tore my heart,
sang of death,
beneath earth’s hard crust.
Yet, I saw her eyes
crinkle with laughter,
then felt her hand rest
on my arm.
The time is near.
She’ll be waiting,
with arms spread wide,
to welcome me home.
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2016
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