The Nursing Home
Mrs. Moore, a resident on floor four,|
Nary a visitor passed through her door.
On a small table her book of scripture,
Beside it a framed sepia picture,
A beautiful young lady and her beau,
Their eyes told a story of love’s special glow.
Her hobby, knitting in pink: new born size,
Her skills flowed, as did the tears from her eyes.
I sat with her the day she passed,
Somehow she knew this one her last,
She spoke, I listened, our hands clasped.
“Where did it go,time seemed to fly,
The weeks the years just zipped on by,
Yet on my days of solitude,
My fondest memories intrude.
Our new born child, we gazed in awe,
She was perfect, nary a flaw.
She had that tender newborn baby smell,
It’s a memory one can never quell.
Beth was born one warm night in June,
So tiny, so fragile, too soon,
She’s waiting on the other side,
I must go ...she waiting ...waiting.”
When I think of that day, emotions soar,
I am forever reminded of Mrs.Moore.
Simplicity SFITB Challenge with JacieStralkaDuca (Jacie)
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