"The worst feature of a new baby is its mother's singing." — Kin Hubbard
A poem I wrote when my aunt Ida passed away after battling cancer:
Her face looks chiseled and painted
Hair in thick golden waves cascades to her waist
Her eyes, two emeralds intensified by thick lashes
So enticing is her face that you don’t notice her nakedness
A breeze gives life to her golden hair
She shudders weakly, and blinks slowly, as though awakened
A subtle rustle is heard
And two giant shimmering wings spread behind her
She glows from within and emits an intoxicatingly sweet scent
You wonder why she is here
Is she saving you?
Taking you to heaven’s gate?
You don’t care
You’re already moving towards her
You follow her with childlike curiosity
You fear nothing because you’re with an angel
© Copyright – All rights reserved – Cristina Cole
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