Silken threads of soul
pass through small, gnarled hands.
The frail fingering of delicate memories,
thoughts softened by age,
bold colors fade to the pastel
of a gentle seascape.
Be careful, Her furrowed brow seems to say.
Time can make us brittle,
and hoarded grief can burn
and consume our days like straw.
It is only by courage;
this work of Her Kindest Hands,
and the surrendering bitterness and pain,
that a soft shawl of peace
can come to rest
upon the rounded shoulders
of a life's waning days.
That the heart may remain
warm and expectant,
and eyes alight
with the soft glow of welcome.
Be sure, wonder does not expire,
nor hope's happy labor retire.
Joy is persistent in her invitation to dance!
The Lady will go on weaving,
with skill and grace,
and with Her golden thread interlace,
a great tapestry to commemorate
the legacy of heart, hearth, and home.
~Cheryl Anne Maris
sitting with the Crone