Eighty
Age, the withering rock that quickly falls
to the gaping hole in the earth, the hardest place,
that traps a life and snuffs it swiftly out
in the confines of enclosing, shrinking space.
Yet her spirit evades the cruel, captive stone
with a vital dancer's step and certain course,
her animate eyes effuse the timeless strength
drawn from some inner well, a brighter source.
With caring beat of heart and saintly brow,
divine of every thought and kindly deed,
brandishing the fierce torch of endless love,
administering to every want and need.
The land she walks unflaggingly upon
respects her stalwart footfall's gentle sound
and needs her life as much as we all do:
sweet rain upon the thirsting, parching ground.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
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