Monday, 26 April 2010
Tibetan Quake Victims
By Johna Ferguson
The clouds swirl across the sky
While my laundry dances on the line like drunken ballerinas.
The wind whistles shrilly
As it seeps in around our ill-fitting windows,
And all the while
Around the small stove we try to keep our bodies warm.
The rooms are cold
Just like the inside of an old oaken ice box.
And the brick walls
And cement floors are equally icy to one’s touch.
But life goes on
And thankfully we have a roof over our heads.
But my thoughts go out
To those less fortunate than we are.
They must huddle like sheep
Under a shared blanket, an entire family.
Waiting, waiting, waiting
For promised water, food and shelter.
But when will it come?
But until then may the sun shine warmly on them.
I am thinking of them all.
[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]