This old woman
Is in her rocker,
With absent expression,
With lost affections,
In the sagging mouth,
Behind the eyes.
Tired, white hands rest,
One clutching a bit of fruit.
A shawl about those fragile shoulders barely warms.
She’s in a garden – inhabiting –
Head seeming to rest on a gnarled old tree,
Flowers and leaves so summer young,
Hidden mysteries everywhere,
Cloudless day, without a care.
Oh, the contrast disturbs, sickens!
The inner rattle!
One struggles against ire, against pity,
Sensing both the beauty, and the decay.