Silvering
Her seed-cluttered core
bears no more fruit
to feed what need
still hungers for,
what another's eyes
have closed to.
Hands, onionskin
-smooth, hold
themselves the mirror
to aging.
Flint-flecked hair
shimmers,
like a lake silvering
in moonlight.
Words that once moved
through her heart
sound,
un-remembered,
indifferent to gestures
of good-bye
she's been whispering
daily at twilight.
© 2013 Maureen E. Doallas
Ah, you describe this place of being so beautifully and evocatively.
ReplyDeleteI suppose it happens to all of us. Undoubtedly hard to accept. Like silver as a verb.
ReplyDeletei hope that my own aging is as graceful you know...and if i talk to twilight...i hope they dont stop me...
ReplyDeleteThere was a mystical, magical quality to this that made for a very smooth and beautiful read.
ReplyDeleteI like the title post and opening lines best ~
ReplyDeleteSo perfect. I love the development through the dried pod and onionskin up to the moonlight silvering. It is so gentle and goes deeper and deeper.
ReplyDeleteBeautifully exquisite, Maureen. Its art poetically. I just love your talent for the abstract. Poet Robert Hass may love more concrete poetry, but I am a huge far of your abstract poetry.
ReplyDeleteThis poem glimmers with the beauty of age, though for some (like my mom with Alzheimer's) the aged one is gone from the body before she dies. You express what I felt with my mother very, very well in this beautiful poem.
ReplyDeleteA sweet and poignant poem about aging without sadness or morbidity..just love coming through and an appreciation for her life...immortalized in your words..
ReplyDeleteseeing this as I read ...
ReplyDelete