The lined hand
with which she dips
the cup of remembrance
into the well of years,
to my suprise, is steady,
as if it were sure of itself.
She must have, like water
flowing for aeons over stone,
let time smooth the edges
of her memory.

Bewildered, I am held captive
as she places her reflection,
foreign and yet
strangely familiar, onto my eyes.
Turning away from the mirror
i can feel her smile on my face;
her old feet dancing
on my heart.