My Outstretched Arm

My outstretched arm
stretches far, far from me
to the one I want so very
badly to hold and care
for until the end of my days.

Why, why doesn't he reach
for my arm and grasp the
only one willing to accept
this harsh allotment awaiting
in his days to come?

I will wait and stand by
his side when he can
no longer stand.
I will pray and carry him
to his place of final
rest, assuring all respect.

No one, no one,
is willing to carry this
burden, not as I am
willing and with pride and
esteem. So why, why
is my arm still outstretched?




Editor's Pick in the Poetry Newsletter 7/11/12