Nursing Home

I often saw her sitting so fragile,
Condemned by the court of time,
In that place of broken bodies and minds,
Where all that's left is the dimming past.

Only the routine needs would interrupt
The solemn silence brooding over her
And would break into her reveries
That mourned the family ties, now foreclosed.

I would see her lift her drooping head,
Her sweet face belying her sad eyes,
And slowly raise a groping hand
As if searching for someone not there.

No children, no grandchildren with other concerns,
Were ever there for her groping hand.
Not a kiss, not an embrace, not loving words
To ignite the waning light in that sweet face.

Now when I pass her empty room,
I mourn her and opportunities lost
To have comforted her as a new friend
And been there for her groping hand.

by H. Nelson Fitton

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