I can
only imagine Noah’s shoes
That a favorite
uncle helped him lace
While tussling
his hair, wild as the stories
He told
his sisters before he raced
Out of
the house into the twilight, heedless
Of his
mother's cries, "That boy, he'll be
The
death of me," or his father's nod
That
knew despite his mother’s fears, if he
Fell, he
would pick himself up and run
Again. But
now his father must enter a cold
Room where
his son, hair neatly combed, lies
In the suit
that his mother has picked;
He must rub scuff marks off the shoes
That
Noah will wear when they close the casket,
Sealed with
his mother's tears, "Don't mind me,
Child, go
from this dark world into blue skies."
Image Source: http://www.npr.org/blogs/thetwo-way/2012/12/16/167390094/in-newtowns-tragedy-futures-cut-short-and-families-left-with-voids
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2 comments:
Wonderful.
Thanks, Fragano. I had been avoiding news coverage, but on the ride home, the story on "All Things Considered" gave me a new insight...from there the poem worked on me.
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