Eighty-five. <br />Her walk is different. <br />Sensing uneven ground, <br />Carefully placed steps <br />Gingerly move towards me. <br />The twilight years are never kind. <br />I worry as I watch. <br /> <br />Radiant skin and raven hair, <br />Have faded somewhere <br />Beneath a silver chapeau. <br />A face that echoes back the years <br />Of scattered joys and, <br />One too many sorrows. <br />Once beautiful and strong, <br />A fragile body now clings <br />To a worn, pale frame. <br /> <br />As she nears I am transfixed <br />By eyes that have defied her years. <br />Their magic serenade begins and <br />Speaks to me in whispers <br />Of summer days and penny candy; <br />Laundry on the line; <br />Lilac scents and hoola-hoops; <br />Ice cream dripping down my chin. <br />Of streetcar rides to Sunday school; <br />Ponytails and braids; <br />Bicycles and baseball games and <br />Graham's corner store. <br /> <br />Of floured hands and shortbread sweets; <br />Toboggan runs and ice rink falls; <br />Christmas Eves and tangerines; <br />Angel making in the snow. <br />Of nimble fingers dancing <br />Over ivories with ease; <br />Transporting me with every note <br />To other times and places. <br />Voices rise in unison <br />To 'English Country Garden'; <br />Each verse a little louder <br />As we sit side-by-side. <br /> <br />Standing now before me <br />I see beauty wrapped in grace. <br />My mother's eyes brought youth and joy <br />To both of us today.<br /><br />Linda Batchelder<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/windows-of-the-soul/
