Saturday, January 24, 2015


By Beatrice M. Hanson

Through summer heat
Or winter storm,

Her sweet face beneath hair
Of white,

Stands at my door.
"How is my good friend today?”
She asks, and pats my hand.

And much like dear Mother of old,
Explores her shopping-bag
For some surprise gift To unfold.

We take our tea,
Or sip of wine.
I inquire as to her health,
She of mine.
Together we chase the ghost Away.
The ghost of a younger and
Happier day.