May 6, 2006
Sitting one early evening with my 90-year old mother - Barbara Marie Moore -
now a widow of one year, before a vase of 12 fresh roses. I encourage to
make poems with numbers, and, like the roses before us, we will go to the
number "12":
One
One big hug.
Two
Two, he already flew
Never knew how much I loved him, too.
Three
My poor little stem is heavy with weight
Its burdens in life have been ever great.
Four
Five
Five is hardly a logical number.
What does it all mean, and what will it be?
Six
Seven
Seven is certainly a dreadful way
In which to face the world scattered far away.
Eight
There is many a struggle
Waiting ahead and it wonąt
Get better and it may get worse
But it will be there, no matter what
In this life or another.
Nine
Nine is enough to make one whine
Cause life has never been what I left behind.
Ten
When it comes to łTen˛ I take my pen
And write a bit with little sense.
Eleven
Twelve
Twelve roses pink and red and almost blue:
They have nothing to say about the world all askew.
The roses will never have anything to say.
Words taken down by her son,
Stephen Vincent.
|