
The Rose​
The Rose​
I am angry.
My mother cannot walk
or do much with her hands.
I hate.
My father for treating my mother
so terribly for many years.
I am glad.
My mother is away from my father
and surrounded by beauty,
beautiful people ...
(now friends) at the care center.
I have pity.
My father is alone
until he goes to visit my mother.
Sometimes I cry for her,
Sometimes I pray for her, and
Sometimes I laugh with her
at life's little pleasures,
Thankful she can hear me,
and feels my fears and my sadness
and my gladness
and still cares and knows that I care.
My mother is alone, yet positive.
She use to be little, now bloated,
yet she's positive.
I visit her, and she's happy...
I leave and she cries, sobs...
I feel bad that I can't be there
more often for her.
She is the most beautiful,
warm person in the world.
Yet look at the life
she has been given.
She's a saint.
I try to comfort her;
She comforts me more.
She's the rose.
1995