A youngest daughter shouldn’t ever die
Her beauty never flatten, like made things;
The home she made to host invited guests
Should be immune to tumorous growing greed.

A cry goes up: Can nothing overrule
This swollen mocking justice?
Or did the trial metastasize her soul?

She turns her head: the cottage by the sea!
The smell of spruce and ocean greet her there,
Their welcome guest. She sees no one but grows
In sensate waiting; not the noxious swelling
Sense of dread, but radiating warmth
That feels like family-
Remitting her to host the reunion.

Written Jan 5, 2012 © Bill Martin, All rights reserved
Dedicated to the memory of my Aunt Barb, d. 12/14/11


3 comments on “Hospitality

  1. pattihazlett says:

    Beautiful, Bill. My condolences to your family.

  2. Janet says:

    Tears. Watched my mom (whose birthday was Jan. 6, coincidentally, and that is the date you posted this poem) battle and lose to cancer. As far as I know (only God knows the heart) she was never redeemed, and I don’t have hope for a reunion. But for those whose loved ones go to be with the Lord, what Joy! Your aunt sounds like a lovely woman, gracious and giving. What a reunion that will be.

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