Drops of Color
Each word, she recalled,
as if it were spoken directly to her,
“Even the dogs get the scraps that fall
from their master’s table.”
Many years have passed,
and she can ‘taste’ each syllable
as she has spent her lifetime
‘gathering’ scraps…each a fragment of her faith.
Her prayer beads dangle between
her disjointed fingers, fine instruments,
her hands—still soft, a tad wrinkled,
yet they remain open for the scraps
she shares freely.
Her faith has made her well
and, even as the glowing candle’s wax
of her being melts down,
a faint glimmer remains visible.
It is her faith that takes her into the darkness.
She does not fear…in her unknowing, she
trusts the ‘scraps’ of those who have made their way.
They leave, for her, soft hues
of penetrating light, places where her
footsteps can tread…a NEW path.
Death is not an end.
I can still see her shadow
as much as I long to ‘cling’ to her hand.
Her cane begins to fall…I have to let it drop.
I only pray to share the scraps of my
faith as well.