Poets.org has a comforting poem by Alison Hawthorne Deming about end-of-life issues and parents. It’s called “Resurrection.”
My friend a writer and scientist
has retreated to a monastery
where he has submitted himself
out of exhaustion to not knowing.
Tracy May Fuad has the long, good “For the Fisherwoman” up at Verse Daily:
A girl who curls up in her seat is a hook
and a plane is a big metal barb dragging
people from place to place and a place
is a hook that wants you to make it a home.
My neighbor stands on her back stoop, watches me stamp
on shovels, me sweat, me tug up trash trees in my yard.
This yard was all packed dirt, a crap-ass lack of grading.
One old syringe, a hundred broken bottles. She watches me
work. She loves to watch me work on my knees, digging, lifting,
flipping Goshen stone from pallets into pathways, raised