Christina's Home Poem by William Coyne

She works her bony arms and gnarled hands,
to crawl along a grassy, brown field,
to view a paint stripped, old and gray farm house,
under ashen sky, her frailty unconcealed.

She drags behind her legs too weak to walk,
soiled white socks in dingy shoes,
and scuffs her threadbare pink dress,
fading from its so much use.

I, behind her, see nothing of her face,
only bundled black hair loosely shocked.
So I stare silently as she by looking,
teaches me what is worthwhile to watch.