Brown eyes blink and hold my gaze. I smooth her
wrinkled brow, remove my hand and watch the fall, skin
folding.

The violet blue of age draws in her veins. Roughness and brown spots
adorn this hand, life’s sure mark of work and love. She wiped his tears
with this hand and smoothed the lines of her own print dresses.

A laughter legacy she leaves. And, the image of her set mouth, a firmness, the straight
line. Youth with its dampness, tears, sweat, diapers, is gone.

Age, the arid passage grips her now. I cup her head to drink. Her brow
wrinkles. The pillow holds her head now, not I.

Aged, feathered frown. Death plucks at her native crown.
A fall to earth its certain claim.

I feel the strength still of her curving fingers.