Biographical Poetry posted March 1, 2016

This work has reached the exceptional level
abstract description of death


by Chris Walker

Her skin powdery soft and fragile, loosely covers the delicacy beneath.
I hold the hand that was once so identical to my own.
Veiled in soft grey with silken folds,
I gaze at the face whose memory brought me home.
Once the deepest green with flecks of golden browns but now cloaked with milky age,
I search the eyes that first saw me.
Hi Mom. It's me.

Intuitively familiar from that sacred prenatal place,
her whispered words connect to my heart and give a halting pause.
I hear the voice that first said my name.
Her lips once ruby toned, intensely full and always offering the gentlest smile,
are now like fallen blossoms, their color faded.
I hold a cup from which she sips.
Hi Mom. Yes, I'm here.

The grays of night begin to fade.
The sun rises pale and seraphic,
as her time closes in.
Breath now drawn so faint her chest barely rises.
Her lips rest in a gentle ethereal smile.
Her silken hand gives a final fragile squeeze.
I hold on and let her go,
witness to the birth of a graced angel.


Still my mother's daughter even though she's gone.
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