apronsongs3

(excerpt)

e’en at her fingertips
sharp wit remains
long liberated from
wild thimble days
for there’s no stitch they do
not know by name
no prick they’ve not
already nursed ablaze

her gentle touch
like heaven’s earthly balm
has cured my dented knees
and bleeding toes
her healing oils and herbs
and eyes so calm
have vivified my life
from stark repose

100 years such smiles
can never kill
that paint fresh radiance
on her kind, sweet lips
lips that know every word
of comfort still
and every song of peace
and every slip

of tongue and catch of breath
and every taste
and every kind entreaty
for God’s grace
and every pray’r
and every painful plea
and every “i forgive you
come to me!”

© Copyright 2013 April 19
by Clyve A. Bowen♫