LeNoir

Margaret V.Doran

Life held me green and dying
in the death of my first-born son
when he was fifteen.
How easily bruises the tender shoot
so newly sprung from its birthing shroud,
cold or heat or gentle touch
can cause it to shrivel before its time
or grow contorted and twisted;
and though I was young
my very life was ripped out
and I was left a tortured shell
more dead than alive


Before I lived, life ceased to beckon me
but I was NOT dead, ONLY dying
and slowly . . . slowly, I began to breathe.
Through the years I lived in the shadow
of my death . . . of his death
when, once again


Life held me green and dying
in the birth of my first grandson.
Such joy of bursting life filled me
that it . . . almost . . .
lit ALL of the shadowy corners
as I hugged him to my breast.
Again the tender shoot was freed,
but to love and caresses
and this time I FELT both
even as life was at its ebb
and I became
more alive than dead

(Lenoir's son Danny was killed in a motorcycle accident. Lenoir now has three beautiful grandchildren.)


Copyright © 1997 Margaret V. Doran All rights reserved.
If you enjoyed this poem, please send her an e-mail here.

Updated July 7, 1999
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