Kurt Philip Behm Poet Rhyme

Old Woman's Hands

Each vein
is a memory
Each wrinkle
attests
Her bones
dry and brittle
Her grip
still arrests

Each day
brings a promise
Each night
a regret
Her will
is sustaining
Her heart
is at rest

She speaks
in a voice
that is shrill
out of tune
While losing 
her wits
often
long before noon

But when
that itinerant
coyote
calls
She looks
down
at her hands
— and remembers it all

(Cody Senior Center: November, 2025)

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