Careless and tender was the song
You must login to vote
Mother raised around her work.
Though age has left her form crumpled
Toy-like and overworn,
Pressed down by cruel children,
Unaware of her value and beauty.
She yet clings to God and Kirk.
A spirit bride for spirit groom.
Sweet her life of work and song,
Resonance numbing, stupifying.
Days as long as dead time can make.
Father preaching, good voice and strong,
Invited the sinner to come along.
Sing first and third of the chosen song.
He died too soon, but died trying.
His songs persue me, mystifying.
She ran everywhere, mother did.
But one day she turned old.
The furniture turned mean.
Took on a threatening look.
Shiny wheelchair beckoned,
Walkers spread their arms,
Crutches and canes
danced in the corner, like bones.
She straightened up and stared them down
And said, "You aren't needed here!"
The furniture filed off, clattering.
Mother gave up running,
And learned how to dance.
"Sometimes you need to surprise somebody,"
"Even if it's yourself."