Windows Of The Soul Poem by Linda Batchelder

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.