Patricia Whiting Fine Arts

So frail
so fragile now
my mother.
Silent,
birdlike
in her nest,
watching
listening.
Unable to translate
thoughts into words,
her tongue become
a hindrance.

Out of courtesy
she parrots
polite replies:
Really . . . yes . . . oh well.
She struggles
with a sentence,
gives up and mutters
Oh hell.
Then laughs
at what she’s said.
And I laugh too,
grateful that we still
have laughter.