|
Hair as frail and white as the last breath
of a dandelion
bent
as she moves ever so slowly
with
great pain
finds
occasional coins ...
Unable to recall
dormant dreams and
adventures of her youth
nor available for chatting...
She reclines,
this one,
like so,
without memories of images of the night
awakes again
to diminished mornings
silent as a lost reflection
bitter as gall...
What will she do,
this one,
ancient, brittle
and silver as the moon?
Who
will be at her side,
ghostlike and numb,
while
she luxuriates in cups of tea,
forgotten songs on a radio,
a comforter about her withered knees... |
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