She softly steps in to sense and assess
Her instincts refined, she can do no less
Is it cut or sore; or of the mind?
No difference to her; no matter the kind
She prods, she sniffs; can't help but lick
Her mission at hand, to cure the sick
So sad that she, will never be mother
Instead, resigned, to be healer of others
(December 5,2015 Escondido, California, USA)
(c) Copyright 2015 by Deborah J Richard, All Rights Reserved
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem