weaving threads of half remembered sadness
to mend a cloak of fears
wrapping twisting webs of whispers
wet with long forgotten tears
They sit and mumble to each other
trying to listen as they rock
Eyes asquint through lowered lashes
They rest a spell from idle talk
The magic of the passing moments
Marked with slowly rocking chairs
Rolling on in murmured cadence
Three aging sisters splitting hairs
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