Small Mother

August 7, 2008
I once held her hand,
though now she holds mine,
because she beholds forks
in a single straight line
and I can't see the whites of her once gleaming eyes,

So let me seek the knowledge she no longer craves,
let me lead through dense darkness,
pretend to be brave
but my echo warns not of the falls in this cave.

She used to give love and affection and aid,
now she swallows the pride she once displayed,
and I'm unprepared, I am small, I'm afraid.

But time's turned as fragile as her aching bones,
cracking like glass, brittle as stone,
and my tears blur the sight of her, aged and alone.

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