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Much Remains Unanswered

Each book made a month,
made a year
stacked up beside a window
through which she could not see.
Read to me she said
and I did sometimes
and she would nod or smile sagely
though I never knew if she was listening.

Once, having dozed through Tennyson,
she suddenly stirred,
heaved herself up on the pillow,
looked straight at me.
Those Victorians, she said,
they knew a thing or two about eternity
but there are still questions
donít you think?
We both dropped into silence.
Besides the bed
in an empty cup was a rose
my Dad had brought her
from the garden.

Annie Kissack

If you have any thoughts on this poem, 
Annie Kissack would be pleased to hear them.


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