a poem about my Father and Mother

Rising from the waves of forgetfulness

He held her hand for the first time in months. He looked and saw and recognized her eyes, framed by her light brown lashes, the gentle fold of her eye lids, the creases in the corners, the pale blue of the ocean found in her eyes-he saw her and called her name through the fog, as if she were far, far away and she knew, in her heart, everything had been worth hearing him call her name, again.

E.Dimov-Gottshall