I had a visitor this afternoon. She spoke nothing, but said much. |
The ancestor of your years comes Wrapping and tapping At the windows, wincing from the walk Across time’s windblown sidewalks and backyards. Her face is withered and weathered But happy to see you nonetheless. She has traveled far to see you And has wasted away on the journey. Locks more grey than gold. High-top, light-up sneakers flashing faintly With the waning deliberateness of stepping incandescence. There’s a smudge of dirt on her face, Across the palely pink apple of her cheek. Her missing-tooth grin bared and disarming For the sheer silliness of it all. Wispy, wild curls winging About her delicate face. In her peerless precociousness, She walks, phantom-like, right through you To the matronly figure you know so well Waiting directly behind your turned back. Feet rooted, you turn to watch, Curious yet omniscient. The pair embrace, Aged eyelids closed, And the dull ashen blonde curls Swaying in a limp pony-tailed bundle. The phantom fades. The embrace ends. And you stare resolutely forward, Eyelids sliding down over tears To begin stepping toward Some descendant’s future. |