Endless

This gentle quiet woman reminds me of my maternal Grandmother. A happy soul content with her life.

She sits on the same wooden bench in Central Park everyday.

Feeding the birds bits of bread as she watches the gray squirrels play.

The busy people scurry by, refusing to even glance.

At this calm soul with her head held low and neatly folded hands.

She wears an old straw hat, which covers her salt and pepper hair.

Fresh daisies resting on it brim she had gently tied with care.

This old hat conceals her lovely face except around her ears.

Tanned wrinkled skin is revealed that has been weathered through the years.

Her endearing yet weary hands sweetly nestle in her lap.

Simply fatigued from holding tightly to love she lost too fast.

She appears weighed down from wearing layers of cotton clothing.

Tattered, dirty floral dresses outlined with torn white lacing.

Her overcoat a woolen sweater with holes at the elbows.

But sticking out of its pocket is a single bright red rose.

She softly hums to the birds amazing tunes from days long past.

Seasons of music and dancing, like in nature, did not last.

Memories she's tucked away into the corners of her mind.

Today she shows no regret, a different life, a different time.

Thankful for her dear life she finds value in its small pleasures.

Strong enough to feel endless peace that most choose not to treasure.