Oh, I imagine many of us *feel* that, Stephen, in all ways...(& the
turn to the rhyme in the final stanza, the sense of ancient ballad, or
lullaby).
Doug
On 6-May-08, at 7:00 PM, Stephen Vincent wrote:
> Heah, my mother lies
> Sleeping on the bedroom floor
> Nothing will move her
> Solid, stiff
>
> Age has its beauty
> Indeed on my creed
> Yet, when it comes to sacks
> Full of wobbly potatoes
>
> Where is my handle?
> My mother love?
> Nothing makes her stand
> I, too, age
>
> Nothing do I have
> To raise her from the floor
> O Lord, I, too, age
> My muscles share me no more.
>
> Stephen Vincent
> http://stephenvincent.net/blog/
>
>
>
>
>
>
Douglas Barbour
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http://www.ualberta.ca/~dbarbour/
Latest books:
Continuations (with Sheila E Murphy)
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Lives devoted to Beauty seldom end well.
Sir Kenneth Clark
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