Myrtle

Her love is not sculpture,

Her sweetness is not hardened stone.

She lives a gentle solitary life,

Passing the cup of love to others.

Her recipients mostly are appreciative,

With a few holding hate in their hearts.

She does what she can in her dwindling years,

But nurtures the kindness that she conveys.

At home there is a cat and a cup of tea,

A ticking clock and the smell of jasmine.

She settles into the tufted couch,

Thankful to have served another day.

She closes her eyes and inhales deeply,

Adrift in her memories and at peace.

 

© 2017 Valerie Hathaway

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