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/
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