Winter time dies
But Spring's life-giving flood
Cannot make leap her blood
Who no more tries.

Birds flute the Spring
But robins on the bough
Nor Larks a'pasture know
The dirge they sing.

Lovers stroll abreast
But passion-brightened eyes
Inspiring choirs of sighs
Can't break her rest.

Breezes warm their breath
But south winds warmly sprung
Cannot unstop the lung
That pants for death.

Prayers bid her stay
But mine will not sustain
Her pilgrimage of pain
Who bends God's way.

The West glows with fire
But splendor here below
Is but a tarnished show
To Heaven's Fyre-

Gene Pinkney, 1992,
on his mother's failing days


 Copyright 2006 Gene Pinkney
No portions may be copied without attribution