Time has been hard on some things, soft on others.
Hands that planted, hoed, kneaded, washed, spanked, played, and praised
are soft with disuse—
in many parts the feeling gone.
Where once fingers crunched numbers,
curled hair, cooked, crocheted, and quilted—
precise and prodding—
they are now in some ways unresponsive, lap-sitting, waiting.
And the wrinkles have come,
leaking out time after time—
and it seems unfair for one so capable to be so dependent, lonely,
planted among babbling others who are reliving horrors and wonders,
imagined and real.
The vibrato is elastic and uncontrolled,
but the song is still there—
words carried along on the memory and soul imprint
from days and months and faithful years of
And the miles walked and fires stoked and kids raised
are etched in lines across your face.
Much of the meaning is tweaked or gone,
but the heart is still loving.
The dreams are misplaced,
but the mind is still dreaming
of a forever
when weakness and age is swallowed up in pure