She walks on, buried
By her years, the cold bites her heart
Hunched against the howl, of fading
Winds, pain weakened, her wrinkles carry
The weight of frailty, her years have rolled
On like the seasons, as she prepares
To brave the cruelty of another final winter.
Some fly, yet some wither, the fruit
Like the leaves, and the turning heavens
Grey, she has with her memories
Of the lost, hers fallen and theirs taken
By the world, with its times, have come
Clinking needles, the lonely chatter
Her yarns share her destiny.
Blessed young angels run amuck
In the warm summer sun, the crisp
Laundry, pie on her window sill, and
Her womb, for it bears more fruit, than
One, kind to her finds her, joy, not knows
No sorrows. This is to her, womanhood
A worship, for the labors.
It is a lovely morning, spring
Has found its way to the skies, to her life.
A chuckle, a subtle touch, sends the hearts
Fluttering into the chirp, the laughter of the children
To be, of infinite hope and dream. It is
In the song and dance, in the clutter of chairs,
To the bustle of kin, she has come to be, one.
As the apples redden, the cherries
Ripe, she grows, a cherubic smile
Flowing locks, in the darkest night
Dreams of moments to be, her luscious
Senses, her graceful splendor nurture
Swaying fields, her maiden youth.
She skips, falls, scrapes her knee
A bold girl she, can’t stop the tears
As she runs to her mother, suppressing
That quaint wail that escapes her pain.
In those tender arms that raised her
She rests, salt drying on her upper lip.
From dust to womb, a soul
She journeys, to another body
Endlessly yearning, to dwell in a moment of
Salvation, for eternity.
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