The Unseen Thread, The Unreachable Hand

The world spins on, a vibrant, rushing blur,

But in one quiet room, no footsteps stir.

A mother sits, abandoned, by the ones she fed,

Her vibrant hopes, like autumn leaves, now shed.

Since his last breath, the burden fell alone,

A silent world, where love was once her throne.

Her children grew, divided all they found,

Then scattered far, on unfamiliar ground.

They left the soil where father's spirit lies,

And more, the living mother in her sighs.

She watches heartbroken, through a clouded pane,

How they treat her like an ill omen, with disdain.

Distancing whispers, in the quiet air,

Leaving her to wither, past all care.

Even a grandchild, visits out of rote,

No love behind the visit, just a note.

When her frail hand reaches, seeking warmth and grace,

The small one recoils, seeing a stranger's face.

That hand, once firm, that guided, held, and fed,

Now finds no solace, comfort, or a thread

To bridge the chasm, deep and cold and wide,

A hand outstretched, with nowhere left to hide.

She recalls her youth, the sacrifices made,

Her husband's labor, 'neath a sun that swayed.

All for these children, now they claim "too busy,"

Too swift to visit, or to walk with her, dizzy

From the long years, the fading light of day,

As life's last moments gently ebb away.

No debt repaid, no comfort brought, no ease,

Just empty echoes on the wind's cold breeze.

Then someone comes, not born of her own seed,

To lead her gently, fulfilling a stark need.

To gates of care, where strangers lend a hand,

A final journey in a barren land.

With no one left, her heart still yearns to keep

One moment's warmth, from those now lost in sleep

Of busy lives, and futures bright and new.

A mother, left alone, with nothing left to do

But dream of touch, a love that would embrace.

Will you ever be able to repay the debt of the womb that bore you?