More than 50 years after I took a creative writing class in college, I've decided to try my hand at writing poetry. This one is about mortality but hopefully not morbidity.
LETTING GO
When next I wake, I know.
No more the soothing sounds of morning rain
On roof and windowpane,
Nor splendor of the Milky Way
On crisp and moonless nights,
Nor sour-sweet scent of new-mown grass,
Nor innocence of bashful smiles.
Behind me now, I’m grateful that
They linger in my memory.
I hear her quiet voice,
Asking am I comfortable,
Assuring me that she is there,
That she always will be there.
I feel the resting of her hand on mine
And know she isn’t going to let it go.
So that I can—
Let go.
© 2018 John M. Phillips
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