Consumption clawing her weak lungs to waste,
she stayed guarded in her invalid chair;
read every press story, would clip and paste
some in the thick black scrapbook, later share
them with Andrew—good news before bedtime,
bad columns the next day, after their rest.
She searched for comfort in poetry, rhymes
and images lifting her. Though repressed
by sons lost to war, her husband’s trial,
she praised Martha and Mary—how they kept
the White House open to the people—smiled
when grandchildren ran to her, only wept
when alone. She thought of Greeneville, stammered
lines she once read her love about grammar
while he sewed, those young years as a tailor.
Roger Armbrust
April 29,
2013
