Laughter. Galloping between warming rays it echoes through the still of a quiet afternoon. Child unburdened, mind untamed, curiosity insatiable that feeds
her wandering thoughts.
ripened with verdant green, like blossoms unfurling with the breeze she spreads her timid wings. Each hour reveals, each day a new age, boundless fields before her, pirouettes on a promised stage.
Then you hasten,
remain ahead of her strides. She pleas for you to turn for her as she chases each moment elusive. Years rush like seconds,
seasons shrink to days, what once sprightly pranced upon tender leaves now slow to a staggering gait.
Standing alone under winter sun where golden days fade to rust, she reminisces of ages past and of lives come and gone. Through aches of tears nostalgic she sees you turn for her. You take her hand, “It’s alright” you say, “for a new season now has come.”
Then you guide her tenderly one final time down the road. Out of the frost, away from the cold, and into the mists of tomorrow.
Lines penned two decades ago never felt more true.
May we treasure every day.
Fragments of moons past sketch silhouettes of
a scenery divine. A daytime reverie. Fond memory. A granddaughter missing you.
Do you recall, grandma? Long ago, a grandbaby born into an era of bitter lack, that enriched by your presence, comforting embrace, renewed to an age of precious worth?
Do you suffer, grandma? Parted by spanning seas, my tears diffuse beneath the rain. Had I a wish and a dove I became, my wings would span, sealing the distance between us.
Do you remember me, grandma? Though the crook of time has stolen your sight, stripped your mind, blunted your strength, with a heavy heart
I still see you as before- with beauty so simple, love so pure to inspire
a nightingale’s lament.
So fear not the season’s change, grandma, nor the graying sun, the silvering stream- as at the end of the road will glisten a rainbow, and the mists of tomorrow will clear away your fog.
Today has brought with it a brand new day, along with its graying skies and chilled dew. As I sit here, the beginnings of a particular Shakespearean sonnet come to mind…
“That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang…”
Take care everyone.
Phoebe and Samantha
Welcome to PhoebeMD.com
Founded in 2013 by Phoebe Chi, MD, PhoebeMD: Medicine + Poetry is a health information and literary arts website that aims to inspire, empower, and educate through a curated mix of essential health information, uplifting personal stories, and original poetry.