Eighty-five.
Her walk is different.
Sensing uneven ground,
Carefully placed steps
Gingerly move towards me.
The twilight years are never kind.
I worry as I watch.
Radiant skin and raven hair,
Have faded somewhere
Beneath a silver chapeau.
A face that echoes back the years
Of scattered joys and,
One too many sorrows.
Once beautiful and strong,
A fragile body now clings
To a worn, pale frame.
As she nears I am transfixed
By eyes that have defied her years.
Their magic serenade begins and
Speaks to me in whispers
Of summer days and penny candy;
Laundry on the line;
Lilac scents and hoola-hoops;
Ice cream dripping down my chin.
Of streetcar rides to Sunday school;
Ponytails and braids;
Bicycles and baseball games and
Graham's corner store.
Of floured hands and shortbread sweets;
Toboggan runs and ice rink falls;
Christmas Eves and tangerines;
Angel making in the snow.
Of nimble fingers dancing
Over ivories with ease;
Transporting me with every note
To other times and places.
Voices rise in unison
To 'English Country Garden';
Each verse a little louder
As we sit side-by-side.
Standing now before me
I see beauty wrapped in grace.
My mother's eyes brought youth and joy
To both of us today.
beautiful.....that's all that can be said of this. it moved me unexpectantly...tremedous.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is such a lovely poem....very nicely written! ! Hugs, dee