Landscape by an Alzheimer’s Patient
Gold for the meadow, gold,
for the hill, green.
Warm brown for shadows in between.
Strokes of colors bold
on the canvas cold.
Thin fingers working, bent and lean,
old in the summer, old.
For the years green
lie drowned in shadows, slipped between
fingers fumbling, cold,
for youth’s warm gold
lost in some half-remembered summer scene.
Page 13 (copyright 2001 Joanne Ramey Cage)
1st prize in State contest, 2000.
1 comment:
Very good poem. It reminds me of one of mine, originally titled The Dying Man. Probably needs a less gruesome title. I've used the first line in several different poems.
I dream that I am almost home.
Then some unwelcomed light intrudes and wakes me.
Strangers come and go,
I know them not.
......
Then darkness once again surrounds and takes me,
Forward, through the mist alone.
I dream that I am almost home.
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