O’er the break of dawn hath thy clouds come,
And cover skies with their eternal grey.
O how the ancient rolls of white hath won;
Shrouding light and darkening thy day.
Thou misty blanket palls the grass with dew.
Thy placid droplets course the way ahead.
The graceful liquid starting life anew,
Glistening- O, life to it was wed.
Amongst the foggy fields, thou shadow stirs-
Exhale- Displacing cascading silver.
Still flecks of moisture in the breeze do spur,
Freezing over at thy thought of winter.
And though the bed of silky white hath set,
Peaceful remains thy path thee shan't forget.
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munsona day ago in Fiction
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