She has an intense look about her,
Worry lines etched into the fabric of her face,
Crow's feet lining the corners of her eyes,
Lips tight against her face like a lemon sucked down to the rind,
Her eyes are a cloudy blue,
Like her vision,
Fading at the edges,
All the colors blurred together,
On some it may have looked like,
w e a k n e s s,
But on her it looks like,
s t r e n g t h.
Like she saw what she saw,
And doesn't need to see anymore,
And with my 20/20 vision,
And life ahead of me,
Well, I could never compare,
And she leans forward,
Her joints creaking like her old rocking chair,
Sipping tea,
The floral scent curling in her stomach,
Biting on her tongue in a way that satisfies,
She leans back up,
Moisture beading on the wispy hairs on her lip,
She beckons me over,
Arthritic hand lumpy and deformed,
I settle into my favorite seat,
The one with the threadbare cushion,
And the,
Legs that always wobble when I laugh,
At the words that flow out of her mouth,
Wavering and old,
But convinced of their own truth,
She may be old,
But she has a story to tell.