The sun yawned it’s roundness.
The cardinals sung unto the Lord,
and the stars faded into the brighter blues.
Another dark night of the soul receded.
She lies sipping on air
and rolls ice chips with her tongue.
A foot tapping and arm twitch
under linen veneer.
She, in her bed,
can’t even get up on the wrong side.
But she whispers sweet everythings
in our ears.
She sleeps in pieces
and heavenly peace will come.
Time stutters and mumbles
while we circle her.
The waiting room cools
as the mourning star moves over.
Evening vespers settle in
and we tuck her in again.
For My Mother.
© Gerald Allen Barrett and parentheticallyspeakingin3d, 2012.
Gerald the Writer 
Thanks for your time and thoughts.