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~<>~< Pot of Clay >~<>~
Warm and humid devoid of sound strangers are stored to die One pale flower is sought and found beheld through cloudy eyes All else excluded from chosen view all else from memory fades Old eyes can see Heaven shine through bright images on parade Silvery hair yellowing skin stooped shoulders and gnarled hands Hearing gone ignored by kin they think she canít understand Into the "home" without a choice no more Home but a house for sale Sit and wait without a voice for a feeble old heart to fail From a flower bed one sweet bloom transplanted to a pot of clay Standing alone in a dreary room wilting a bit more each day
We are the future for which they worked so hard. They are the past upon which we are built.
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