Waiting for Wings
Most days
chair propped against a wall in the nursing home, the old lady stares
through the window at the winter pansies, past a sundial where caterpillars sleep
in chrysalids. Watches leaf piles shrivel and disappear under fat snowflakes.
A placid smile curls her lips quiet hands folded.
Today
she wears a best dress. Enjoys how it drapes over knees, becomes
swirls of shiny purple pools in lamplight. Listens to the murmur
of her daughter’s voice, stories of sea voyages for English war brides or homemade
wine at Christmas. Glances at silk flowers, black frames, and shadow boxes
full of trophies that crowd the bed. So many photos!
Beside the door, just where sunlight falls, hangs a German shepherd poster. His eyes
are raised to her, a young woman in a yellow blouse whose hand folds into his hair.
After a while
she pulls on a sweater, lies down. Turns
on her side to gaze at daffodils that sway and shiver as a petal lets go—drifts away.
Now family gather to press the mattress, bend to kiss her cheek, her eyelids.
Now family gather to press the mattress, bend to kiss her cheek, her eyelids.
Gentle faces share wistful smiles when their fingers fold over hers.
By and by
garden breezes creep through the open window, freshen the room.
Sunshine freckles young shoots of summer daisies, flickers over smooth walls. Only
a sliver of paper remains beside the door. A butterfly’s shadow flutters
across open privacy curtains, alights on the windowsill folds yellow wings.
Margaret Rutley is a retired braille transcriber. Her poetry has been published in literary magazines and anthologies such as The Prairie Journal, Island Writer, and The Sacred in Contemporary Haiku. Her concrete poetry can be found at underthebasho.com. She is a member of Haiku Canada, the Haiku Society of America and the Heron’s Quill poetry group.