I rarely get inspired to write poems, but once in a while, something mysteriously moves me to express myself in the concise, more challenging form of poetry, "a fairer House than prose," as Emily Dickinson called it. So here is my latest effort:
EASTER AT THE NURSING HOME
"I want to die," she cries each time
we visit what is left of her.
Today we bring flowers, chocolate eggs
and candied smiles for Easter.
I want to say something
about hope or light or life,
but she draws me into her darkness
and we're back in Gethsemane,
waiting, waiting
with all those who suffer alone.
Easter is never easy.
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