deepundergroundpoetry.com
A Daughter Drifting
In the quiet of her daughter’s bedroom, she sat with shades drawn.
Looking down at her hands she questioned God.
How does a treasure, so fiercely guarded, slip through open fingers?
The lips of my child that once whispered prayers at this bedside
now give pleasure to the unworthy. How can flesh of my flesh
yield with such ease to the fickle dance of an adolescent boy’s desire?
What were her prayers at the moment of his coming? Were they
prayers for grace or of thanksgiving?
Did she feel pleasure or sadness?
These are the thoughts of a mother struggling with her surrender to
time's relentless march. Such is the burden of watching her daughter
drift beyond her reach and into the hands of others.
Looking down at her hands she questioned God.
How does a treasure, so fiercely guarded, slip through open fingers?
The lips of my child that once whispered prayers at this bedside
now give pleasure to the unworthy. How can flesh of my flesh
yield with such ease to the fickle dance of an adolescent boy’s desire?
What were her prayers at the moment of his coming? Were they
prayers for grace or of thanksgiving?
Did she feel pleasure or sadness?
These are the thoughts of a mother struggling with her surrender to
time's relentless march. Such is the burden of watching her daughter
drift beyond her reach and into the hands of others.
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