At eighty-six
She’s learned to be indulgent
Of other people’s indulgence—
The way the young smile
when they think she’s not looking
And the polite way they nod,
while only half listening,
To the stories she tells (her old woman’s fancies)
Of how she too was young once,
With skin soft and unwrinkled,
Riding a paint horse, her dark hair in braids,
And how she was a rebel (her father be damned)
Who dared love a cowboy from Paradise, Texas.