Friday, March 19, 2010

A Past Life by Roger Singer

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.

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