I counted the wrinkles in her hands, <br />Whom life had subtly passed by. <br />She got no visits and no mail, <br />No one phoned to say hi. <br /> <br />On the table by the window, <br />A lovely portrait of her youth. <br />With feeble hands she caressed <br />The image that so seemed to sooth. <br /> <br />I promised her, sometimes, to visit <br />And to think of her each day. <br />It’s her time now, but mine will come; <br />For I shall wear her shoes some day. <br />© 2009 by W.S.<br /><br />Walterrean Salley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/it-s-her-time/
