Bittersweet Talent

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I sit on blue velvet.
Her face solemn;
Eyes closed.
I let my damp eyes trail down her
Sea green blouse
To her hands:
Their ghostly lack of pulse.

I let my mind wander back,
Back a few years before.

She is sitting in the den,
Holding a semi-finished,
Snowy sock.
Her dainty fingers
Moving faster than a jack rabbit's flee.
They gesture me to join her.
She hands me a jet colored utensil.
The smooth wooden needle is alien to my eyes.
The blue webs of veins unbedded in
Soft folds of skin match the much
Slower pace she is using now.
I copy her and slowly
Notice the short chain in my lap.
My small fingertips graze across
What I have created.
The soft yarn's loops of ruby
Seem to glow against the
Pastel couch's floral pattern.

I flash back to my gaze
At the ivory coffin before me,
Still holding the memory....
The small electric organ rarely played
In the corner
Of the sweet, dusty den
Belonging to
My great-grandmother....





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This article has 2 comments. Post your own now!

David M. said...
Feb. 10, 2011 at 2:51 pm
sad, but really great poem
 
onepromisetokeep said...
Feb. 9, 2011 at 11:42 pm
this is really good! keep writing, definitely!
 
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