Comfort was sitting in Mom’s living room
for years after Dad was gone.
From our soft chairs
we watched the pine tree fill the front window:
day and night,
it shielded Mom from the sounds of traffic,
muffled by snow in winter.
Comfort was sitting, laughing, listening –
not forever, as time turned.
Comfort is sitting with my husband, forever fresh-faced, toe to toe,
on the couch, our feet covered with a gifted afghan,
each day.
Comfort is reading Rumi, laughing, listening.
Comfort is the listing birch that graces my view,
a forever friend, happy, lovely.
Comfort is quiet, deep, still,
and gone,
forever.
Mary Elyn Bahlert 2/29/2019
TheWisdomYears.org 