The Picture

The picture She bends over the lace making table Fingers swollen knuckles hard and round Silent conversation hands to cotton, cotton to hand Weaving and wefting Curling and carping Each lazy loose strand. Arched back and shoulders Eyes squinting to see The old lady with the crochet shawl Turns as if to see. A chill screams over my body I watch that which cannot be An aged long dead woman Is looking straight at me With withered face and pigeon eyes I feel her go straight through my frame The picture from the curio shop The woman with no name. The senses screech the body tight I stiffen like a corpse in my fright And still she stares, then creeps a smile From that worn and wrinkled face As if by magic she emits a glow, a grace Then turns to her table and all is still I will give her to my mother in law Tomorrow I certainly will!