On A Mother's Passing
Always thinking that there'd be time.
by Lynette Hazel
We'd surely have enough tomorrows promised.
The grave is now so cold, final, unforgiving.
Now, final touching of her cold, yet pliant flesh.
Bereft of all warm gestures, she lies unmoving,
Unable to ever again make a movement of benediction.
Never again to caress in forgiveness or soothe away the fears.
Finality is in the grave, it's maw wide open to receive
remorseful tears for unfulfilled promises and
opportunities never to thrive, be realized.
Final and irrevocable,
the earth is piled on,
encloses touches, murmurs, whispers,
and time deferred.