Sunday, October 31, 2010

Errant son

I feel guilty each time
my shadow darkens her stone.
Ever the errant son, my visits
to her grave come once a year -
Memorial Day, penitentially, flowers
in hand. However, the preacher
said her soul is no longer there,
so I've adopted that excuse.
Mom, I know you're not supposed
to be there, but if you are,
forgive me, again. Your son.

5 comments:

Gillena Cox said...

a soul deep poem

much love
gillena

Bill said...

my wife and I
by my late wife's grave
our conversation

Magyar said...

Nightly, my thoughts hover among remembered souls.

So well expressed, Warren. _m

Adelaide said...

Dear Warren,

Your prayer to your mother will be heard from wherever you are. If there is a life after death, and if it is the soul which survives, then there is no particular place, but everyplace, mostly in the memories of those left behind, I think.

As you always do, you touch upon a universal emotion, this one, one of regret.

Adelaide

Warren said...

Thank you, Gillena - Sorry it took me awhile to respond - back from the abyss.

Mag - Wow, your line is terrific - put it to a full poem?

Adelaide, my friend - thank you very much for your words - they mean even more to me right now!

Love you guys - War