A mother, on her lonely death bed, grieves:
The child who lives to squander joyful noise --
Who will affirm and love him when she leaves?
Or understand his incoherent voice
(As if to seek a way to speak)
Of dancing, artful and unique?
He demonstrates his growing ecstasy
With whirls more passionate than beauty's kiss,
Beholding wonders no one else can see
As angels fill his soul with cosmic bliss.
He fits no mold: his dreams untold,
His thoughts too complex to unfold.
He sways and circles, turns and tilts his head,
Hands flailing, shouting mirth, and eyes aflame;
He bumps into his dying mother's bed,
Oblivious to her whispers of his name.
No moans, no sighs, no sad good-byes:
Amid his joyful noise, she dies.
Elfriede Mollon © 2014