Friday, November 24, 2017

December poem

The old woman stares
out perching her weight
against the sill and perhaps
sees what I do not.

The cold air of fall
makes her grimace
as her body crunches
and folds together to keep

the warmth safe.
She does not flinch
as birds pass and sunlight
filters its way

through the dirty glass
nor does she change position
to the sounds that come
from the street.

Like an outline drawn
at a crime scene
there is both emptiness
and memory looking

straight out at the sickly sky
making her a witness
to something hidden,
to something she is afraid

to let go of.
My mother once stood
at the foot of the bed
where my grandfather

lay covered in a white sheet.
A sheet as deep and as full
as any cloud could be.
She too

did not move
and only stared down
and across him
as if some hill to climb.

Steven Pelcman

Iodine Poetry Journal USA 

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