When my mother lay dying,I should have sung to herThe Lullaby her mother…
This space is cold.
These empty walls offer no reflection,
“Thanks are to be sung”Was the advisive wordA shrewd and sage man once gaveTo a relativeAnd I overhearingRetained what was relatedRemaining…
Past receding in time’s ethersGrateful for present momentsLetting go, being hereSun lit blowing treesBlooming pinks…