The Last Visit - Poem by Teresa Dearing
She sat upon a lonely hill,
Offering up some shelter still;
Broken, battered in some places,
Rain and snow had left their traces.
Gardens all full of weed and thorn,
The fields around were all forlorn.
See the oak, that we all could climb,
And the tire swing, that once was mine.
Out past the garden’s rusted gate,
There’s the pond, on which we’d skate.
Alone she waits, gray, unadorned,
Her windows dim, like eyes that morn.
Up the front steps, worn and broken,
Not a word I could have spoken.
Fireplaces cold, damp, and dreary,
Now my eyes are full and teary.
Dust dances, as I pull the sash,
While in the corners, piles of trash.
Some rooms were added here and there,
Some one would think with out much care.
A pink room here for Sister Sue,
And one for Grandpa, who liked blue.
Up the stairs I carefully roam,
My heart cries for my childhood home.
Mom’s love letters, an attic chest,
Tied with lace, from her wedding dress;
The rocking chair, Dad’s old wood pipe,
Weathered books all with faded type.
Generations, loved and sheltered,
Through winter’s cold, summer’s swelter.
I long to bring you too repair,
Time and money, I’ve none to spare.
So as these memories flood my heart,
One last visit, forever we part.
All alone in a nursing home,
But in their minds they still can roam,
Back to their home and a time of love,
Spirits fly, like a soft, sweet dove.
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