read her Bible
and waited for
the parting
of the sea
of senility
to clear,
and watched as the
color of life
faded
to black and white.
Inside every
old person
there is a child
and time slips
away
like yesterday's
newspaper
and God never gives
you more
than you can handle,
and in the end you
carry
your own cross.
I am numb to
feel the cold hand
of her touch,
and I am much
concerned
at this intrusion
of absence.
