Poem Place: Mom Called

Each morning my neighbor, an 86-year old man, drives slowly from town to the barn across the road to tend his horses. He says they are what keep him alive, that tender, daily task of providing food and water. Now there is only one remaining from the herd. She is very old and I imagine she is lonely and that she must relish Bill's daily visits.

Mom Called

Mom called

last night. Scattered

among the chit-chat –

comments about the impeachment,

the quilt top she

pieced for church –

was a list of friends

who died recently. And

now, Doris, 96, her

quilting buddy

fades in hospice. The line

goes quiet. Mom

draws a breath.

In the field across the road

a mare stands,

sway-backed and gray

in the sleety snow.

Years have passed. The herd

thinned. Now alone,

she has turned

her frail back

to the northwind.

She lifts one foot,

then the other

to relieve the

pressure this

big earth

places on her

diminished body.

– Steve Peterson

Me reading the poem.

2 comments:

Mary LeeJanuary 25, 2020 at 3:44 PM
Heartbreaking. This was the experience of my mother, and now her "younger" friend, who just turned 80 and who is losing the remains of her bridge club, her coffee klatch, the core of the Methodist Church members. The way you connect the chat with your mother to the last mare of the herd across the road...poignant.
Steve PetersonJanuary 25, 2020 at 8:16 PM
Thank you so much for following me over here and offering a comment, Mary Lee.

Talking with mom has helped me see how brave a person has to be to get old, and the ways we try to weather these cold winds.

Thanks for commenting!