Friday, October 2, 2009

A I R <---> M A I L

For my mother (Oct 17,1932 - Feb 28, 2009)

The stamps you left inside your roll-top desk
are lady liberties worth thirty-nine
cents each. And in this chair I'm like a guest
in a closed Bed and Breakfast as I sign
this poem/letter that I'll never send
to you because the place is much too far
where you have flown. I cannot cause the wind
to carry my fond wishes to your star.

We last spoke on a Saturday by phone;
the final time was February-gray.
I told you I would call you back at home
that afternoon. I never got to say
the words I would have said if I had known
how quickly death would swallow flesh and bone.

Anne Bryant-Hamon (c) Oct. 1, 2009

1 comment:

K.Lawson Gilbert said...

Anne, this is so touching and heartfelt. I love how you begin this poem.

I come here from Breathing Poetry. I have loved Vincent for years, now. I love the person as much as I admire the work. Your poem, To Vincent is one of the best I have read about Van Gogh. I can tell you know and love him, too. Beautiful work.