The
Harpist
A volunteer brought her harp
to the hospice house,
choosing a seat near the room
where I was keeping
solemn watch. As she
plucked the strings,
my heart’s tears flowed down
my face.
Peace pervaded my soul. When
she left, she said,
I’ll see you next week. If
not, I’ll know
he’s in a better place. I never saw her again,
but I carry with me her
blessed music and good heart.
I will ever be grateful for
her ineffable gift.
Elizabeth Howard lives in
Arlington, Tennessee. Her work has appeared in Comstock Review, Big
Muddy, Appalachian Heritage, Cold Mountain Review, Green
Hills Literary Lantern, and many other journals.
I love this poem, about being grateful from small gestures of others, especially when given in times of grief.
ReplyDeleteWell written dear Elizabeth
Very lovely.
ReplyDelete