Mom - Poem by Sara Militello
I entered her study; which is what she called it
though I knew it always as the junk room;
a jumble of books, nick-knacks, collected articles
and poems she'd written.
There lies the dust of many days away
measuring the neglect of gnarled fingers
no longer keeping dust at bay.
She'd read her collection of books
over and over until the brutality of meaning
impressed her senses, margins heavily annotated.
I recall that sharing her knowledge
annoyed the occasional target
her unspoken sense of futility might've offended
had it tried once her tears learned to dry
before being spilled and beauty calmed her spirit,
keeping it brightly lit.
I trace a passage through that dust
finally seeking to know the one
that was my mom.
She'd parted the curtain for me
now and then;
when times were kinder and I deigned
to let her in.
Now she exists only in memory among the dust motes
gathered upon her collected things;
simple guides through depths that measure
the breadth of her mental flings ~
her collected poems a gentle reminder
of how she loved to share her findings.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You