Pale skies this morning and a leftover
moon, past being of use to lovers or night
farers, pallid in the light. My mother sighs.
She’s ninety-seven now and wants to die.
Crippled hands no longer quilt, clouded
eyes see only the edge of things. She sits
at the window and watches the blur
of her garden shrivel in October’s chill.
A crow bullies his way onto the feeder,
scattering the sparrows. Last night’s lovers
head for work in separate cars.
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