See her there, sitting
in a fairly comfortable
re-upholster'd easy chair

Completely content
to stare at the face
in the mirror that crack'd
with a memory slip-sliding away

Innocence at 92,
So Beautiful. . .

Now she barely recognizes
her own room, we just sit
and hold hands, and she
shuts off my circulation,
begging me to stay,

"Don't leave me here,
I want to follow you!"

This woman called Beautiful,
used to lead me by the hand,
help'd me put on my socks and shoes,
comb'd my cottony soft brown hair
as I, a young girl
sat in that same old
lopsided easy chair,
wearing the fabric thin
with childlike impatience;

what a crime that there is noone
to re-condition the satin pages
in the worn out scrapbook,
full of untitled pictures
in this succulent mind;
such a bright, vibrant woman,
author of my Chronicles of Fate,
and it's so very hard to
leave that all behind.