THE GIFT

A golden cornfield.
Poppies, crimson on green
In the foreground.
The deep blue horizon
Fades to egg shell,
Beneath a purple cloud.

This painting is framed
But fields have fences.
The mount is wrong;
It should be black.
Evening light shines
Across the glass.

A quiet, peaceful room.
My eyes keep returning
To the picture
You asked me to choose for you
At an auction.
Knowing it would be mine
One day.

Now that I’m the age ,
you were,
I wonder to whom
Shall I leave it?
There is no daughter
To inherit a mother’s
Loving kindness.

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