A Child's Stories

A Child’s Stories


A big, warm shoulder
Swathed in soft flannel
Bright pictures
Of goats and jolly men
Words that drift through
My clouded consciousness
Spoken in the slow, careful voice
Of an old woman
Leaning against her secure presence
Letting her rhythmic, creaking tones
Wash over me
I fall asleep

When she comes back
She has forgotten her pretty books
I lay a comforting hand on her arm
Childlike
You can read next time
I tell her

Before she can return
Time has taken its toll
And as autumn rolls in
She is gone
I will never lean
On such a comforting arm
And I will never hear
Her lulling tones
And next time
Is gone