Poem | Each Week

 

EACH WEEK

Bedridden at ninety-five,
Her long white hair
Always combed,
She drifts in, she drifts out
Of that place
No one can reach.
She recognizes the flowers
He brings. “Daffodils,” she says
At the beginning of spring,
“And who are you?”

Published in the May 2020 issue: 
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Michael Miller’s poems have appeared in the Sewanee Review, the Yale Review, and Raritan.

Also by this author
On the Sunlit Field

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