a poem in my pocket

In the back bedroom of a hospitable home

on sprawling shaded lot in Magnolia, Texas,

lies an adult little girl; disabled but beloved,

dear daughter and sweet sister named Kim.

She’s a redhead, age 52, curled in bed, mute;

a child of God, reflecting his image; like Him,

her eyes always seeing (open even in sleep)

and her ears always hearing (primary sense).

What a privilege to meet Kim, touch her hand

as she rests in sanctuary of clean sheets and

sunny windows; surrounded by hum of vital

equipment, carried gently by sacrificial love.

Holy ministry happens here on a daily basis,

offered by her mother, who dedicates all her

nursing skills, the tenderest days of her life to

care for, love on, feed, turn, and talk to Kimmy.

Dedicated to Kim Feenstra, who lives with her precious family (and a condition called micro-encephalitis).

Challenge at Poetics Pub to use drinking words (listed) for a non-drinking activity…

last call for dirty laundry as granny

loaded tumbler for one more round,

tipping a bodacious shot of bleach.

“c’mon, help tie one on the clothesline,”

she says, hanging three sheets to the wind.

then turns sour, seeing hair of the dog on

whites;  kamikaze-like, she yells straight-up

“choose your poison, we gotta rewash ’em!”