Joanne J.

M.E. Tuthill

The twilight cast its lonely gaze
Upon the placid pool.
The summer has receded,
The children, back in school.

Historic in its presence,
Built in days of yore.
An elegant pavilion,
Upon New Hampshireís shore.

The aura of late August,
Warm air and hearty seas,
Supplanted by Septemberís
Shrill and howling breeze.

It happens in an instant,
One moment to the next.
Words simply canít communicate
What senses may detect.

And while the days are numbered,
The pool remains alive.
Beckoning a sturdy soul,
Who swims each day at five.

Saddled in a wheelchair,
Pushed by a man in white.
Positioned at the shallow end,
From where she will take flight.

Her legs are limp and listless,
Her head, it jerks aside.
Not so, her arms and shoulders,
This day, disease defied.

A Herculean effort,
To travel down the lane.
Fueled by her own power,
Itís freedom she has gained.

No crowds are there to cheer,
No flag draped stands so grand.
This race for time and distance
From fateís unruly hand.



September, 2007





     

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