Ellipsis

Three black crows on snow covered wire …

an ellipsis trailing off like an unfinished thought,

an unfinished life … a friend leaving

before we can grasp the meaning of her …

the footnote missing from the bottom of the page.

At the funeral home, you tightly hold my hand …

a link to yesterday and your mother.

If I could, I would leave my hand behind,

locked in yours … an anchor to hold onto.

 From October Light Chapbook, Finishing Line Press

A Song For Grandma

I sing a song for the wind-up Victrola

in Grandma’s parlor,

the one that played Caruso,

his voice soaring to high notes

no one else could reach.

I sing a song for the oval photo

of Grandpa standing

behind Grandma’s chair,

his dark suit contrasting

her white, stiff-collared shirt.

In these rooms she grew old,

each morning dipping hard bread

into black coffee, each day

scrubbing the wooden stairs,

a patch over one lens

of her wire-rimmed glasses.

In these rooms she called me

Adele, niece she raised

and still searches for

outside among the gnarled,

wild honeysuckle vines.

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