poem

[ljgeoff]

Epitaph

I took her hand,
Her fine, papery skin
Soft against my fingertips.

Frank died in the night.

I said,
I'm sorry.

She placed her other hand
Over mine.
We sat,
Our limpu toast growing
Cold and stiff,
My hand held softly in her grasp,
Trapped there between her
Aged palms,
Hearing the whisper of death.

Well,
she said,
well.

She must have seen something
In my eyes, wide,
Because she patted my hand,
Smiled ruefully, a glimmer of something there,
Said,

It was his time to go,
ya know.
He couldn't shovel the snow no more.