Pink Oleander

He came for her.

He returned and they were a perfect pair

of the birds she watched all those years

as if she knew that her tired arms might take their wings

and her last breath, expelled from life

might join the wind and give rise to her first flight

reunited with the soul that returned for her

to once again soar behind her beautiful soul.

The beat of their wings greatened the air

until it gathered the oleander’s pink and fragrance

to wash through me and surround me

with their osprey’s laughter at freedom and joy, joy, joy.

27 April 2008

Sanctuary of Gladys

Biscuits with butter and honey

Long walks for careful talks

Canasta and Gladiolas

A cool and giant leather chair

A half-house with steep stairs that lead to peaceful, safe sleep

A conservatory of sweetness, strength, humor and laughter in the face of consistent pain

Softly fragranced, southern childhood days called forth with joy to light the chisel-sharp cruelty of northern poverty, family, and longevity

A stranger to monotony

A speaker to children

A full-bosomed mother to every wounded, tired and confused little soul

I cannot remember her ever asking for any thing, large or small.  

Not a cup of tea or a brick of gold.

16 February 2009