WITH MY MOTHER IN THE WEEKS OF HER DYING
by Laurel Rust
My mother’s face is hardly recognizable
on the flat pillow of her bed,
eyes closed. Sitting beside her bed
in her wheelchair, I don’t want
to stare at her, want
to give her privacy, but can’t concentrate
on a book, or the clouds
lumbering across the sky out the window,
so I look at her, she who seems here
and not here, as I am also
here and not here, hour
after hour, as she sleeps, if
in fact she is sleeping.
Her dying isn’t a poem
I can compose. Whatever it is,
it’s hers.
DRIVING TO MY MOTHER’S BURIAL
by Laurel Rust
Lovely day to be driving
to where we will put our mother
into the ground, commend her
into the hands of God: clear blue sky
as infinite as the finality
of death, thick white frost
studding the ground
with sparkle
like a million stars
in the firmament;
all the shining pieces
of my mother.
Laurel, a beautiful tribute to your Mother…
Laurel captures the intimacy of death and the sparkling beauty of life in both these poems about her mother. Such a pleasure to read!
Both poems touched me deeply. “All the shining pieces of my mother.” So beautiful.
Than you, Laurel, for these beautiful and deeply touching poems.
Jens
sensitive and beautiful as always, Laurel – these poems of your mother. Your feeling and imagery is so comforting in a deep way.