The sun yawned it’s roundness.

The cardinals sung unto the Lord,

and the stars faded into the brighter blues.

Another dark night of the soul receded.

She lies sipping on air

and rolls ice chips with her tongue.

A foot tapping and arm twitch

under linen veneer.

She, in her bed,

can’t even get up on the wrong side.

But she whispers sweet everythings

in our ears.

She sleeps in pieces

and heavenly peace will come.

Time stutters and mumbles

while we circle her.

The waiting room cools

as the mourning star moves over.

Evening vespers settle in

and we tuck her in again.

For My Mother.

© Gerald Allen Barrett and parentheticallyspeakingin3d, 2012.