Contrasts

CONTRASTS This old woman Is in her rocker, Looking off, 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 intrusion! The inner rattle! One struggles against ire, against pity, Sensing both the beauty, and the decay.