I cry a river
over times that are past,
when I held my mother's hand,
and when I made her laugh.
We walked and saw flowers
and listed to the birds;
She couldn't always understand,
but love didn't need words.
Even in the dark times,
when we were up through the night,
why didn't I see it?
Everything was right.
Why did I give up
and send her to a home?
She sat alone for a while,
and now she is gone.

Written April 1996
Copyright © 1996-2002 Brenda Parris Sibley
Published in Waiting for the Morning (Writer's Club Press/iUniverse, 2001)