You were there, sitting on your bed silently …
Like a bird waiting for Spring
The small hospice room where they put you
Looks like this branch of chestnut tree.
Your withered hands hook in their language
Your attachment to the world, your desire to leave a mark
To the time that goes by, and your words reflect your will
To trust God, who knows your soul.
At 97, you spend days
Far from Italy that you left behind
You’re going to fall asleep in this distant land
Whose language or saints, you don’t know .
Sweet soul, sweet woman, so withered and serene
God was injected into your veins
You radiated kindness and patience
I was learning in silence, a lesson in existence
Poetry by Christine Frechatd
Christine is a woman par excellence. She lives in Pittsburgh owner of Art Gallery. To know more about her please check out
