MOTHER’S BIBLE

Cracked leather cover, pages worn,

Mom carried that Bible each Sunday morn.

She possessed another, unblemished, new,

But to this cherished one remained long true.

I never went with her, though she asked me to,

I always had other things better to do.

Too late now, I wish I had listened,

My heart was hardened, my neck was stiffened.

My hand holds now that Book she carried.

I thumb through the pages, reflecting, unhurried.

I see notes in her hand in countless places,

Verses and numbers penned now for the ages.

I never thought twice why this Bible she favored,

Forsaking all others, her choice never wavered.

For the name in gold letters engraved so fine

Is not hers on the cover.   It always was mine.

(Copyright 2015 Ken Ragan)