Muse

The lamp swings like a pendulum                                   Pictures sway on their nailsThen slip down the walls, leaving scratched trailsAmidst the quake, the grief, the confusion and scare Slowly ascending is my father's armchair
And beyond all these outlines of what I see thereBeyond the sofa, the knickknacks, the old furnitureLight pours in, and it paints something newIt reveals, it unveils at this moment a clue
The clue to a presence only he could once seeA presence he longed for, because only sheCould call him back home, and envelop him soTouching-not-touching, her hands all aglow
These pages, upon which he'll never scribble a lineAre floating out of shadows, into the shineOnly she can now read the blanks, she and no otherHe's ascending into the arms of his muse, his mother.
Listen to my narrator, the tallented Kathy Bell Denton, read these lines:


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Detail from my oil painting, inspired by the same moment in time as the poem above 

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