Her fingers are fallen pedals
After a storm, laying useless on
Her lap. An untied apron speaks of
Her dreams.
She opens a flowered umbrella over
The mantel of her gray hair;
A crown of her age,
A testament to harbored wisdom.
Her fingers softly rub together
Over blue veins and paper skin.
She warms herself with memories
Touching her past.
No comments:
Post a Comment