January 12, 2009

Mother, Edith, at 98

by Michael Lee Johnson

Edith, in this nursing home
blinded with macular degeneration,
I come to you with your blurry
eyes, crystal sharp mind,
your countenance of grace−
as yesterday's winds
I have chosen to consume you
and take you away.

"Oh, where did Jesus disappear
to?", she murmured,
over and over again,
in a low voice
dripping words
like a leaking faucet:
"Oh, there He is my
Angel of the coming."

*Michael's website:


Anonymous said...

I enjoy this man's poetry. I,ve seen him in many places on the net. Great imagery.

Lenord Collins.

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