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These Things.

These things are sent to try us,
Gran said, her thumb
Moving itself over
The well-worn beads
Of her dark wood rosary;
Her eyes taking in the crucifix
On the wall above her bed.
You sat watching her thumb
Moving its way back and forth
Over the round black beads,
Her arthritic fingers clutching
Blue blankets and white sheet.
Never tries us beyond our strength,
She added, the strained features
Mingling with the yellow taint
Of wrinkled skin. You wondered
Who sent the things to try her,
Whose bounty of gifts left
Small tears wedged in the corners
Of her eyes, pushed out words
Between harsh sighs.

poem by Terry Collett
Added by Poetry Lover
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