I look at her weathered face
and I can see that time doesn’t fly.
It picks, it chips,
it spits out turpentine,
and it drizzles acid rain.
I look at her and I can see
that her cheeks are rusty
and the crows have made
a nest of her bonnet.
I look at her and I want to cry.
I look at her and I can’t help
but wonder what its like to die
not of old age, though the years,
there have been many,
but from people moving on,
from time shifting perspective.
I look at her and I learn how to survive.
I look at her and I feel…