Little Italy

The ages of spotted elegance
design her finger tips in such
a way, that I am reminded
of her beauty, as she strokes
my raven hair, in such a caring
embrace, that I cry silently.

In my mind I know of her
on coming, eternal rest,
as if nature sings within
her eyes, soon she shall
sleep in her scattered mind,
and finally the wheels can
stop the on going spin
of madness.

My little Italy shall be glorified
among the heavens as a wife
and mother, precious, petite soul
who danced within the rose garden
with her beloved Anthony.

I wished I had known her before
the illness whisked her away
into another dimension,
but knowing her now,
blesses my heart and eyes
and I shall kiss her tender cheek
until the day she whispers goodbye.

For My Little Marie