imbedded on her
wrinkled cheeks,
and eyes,
and mouth,
lies a story of
every moment
she encountered
throughout her state
of being

her hands are knobbed
from a love that
played to the ears
of so many listeners
slowly
finding their way
across the 88 keys
into a world of
expression and priceless
animation

her back aches
from the rakes
of leaves that she
clears day-in and
day-out every fall,
so that the flowers of
her garden may bloom yet again
throughout the winter
carrying the land across
those icy months
and into spring

her white washed hair
still holds its softness
and vitality, in a remedy
of beauty long remembered
from earlier years when
all she had was her youth

older and all the wiser
she is more beautiful
than any youth could
hope to be

now creviced in time,
her interpretation
of the world is simple,
we do what we can
until our destiny
welcomes us
into its temple

10/12/2008

Author's Note: To a grandmother from a granddaughter.

Posted on 10/12/2008
Copyright © 2024 Elizabeth Hoadley