November 4, 2006

Thyme on her Hands

she was eighty six

when she turned to dance

some say it was dementia

yet to see her in the garden
moving above the fall crocus
grace among the late roses
swaying with the cool wind

to see her smile
light as the white fingered
clouds of autumn

you found the way in
lightly through a bed of thyme
speckled with delicate petals
remembering her graceful turning


So beautiful, imagining this Being, on an autumn afternoon. The sun is coming through her white hair, reminiscing soft clouds, as she is turning through the late summer roses. I detect the fragrance of lemon thyme on her hands. ~M


Irving said...

What a sweet and lovely poem. In youth or old age, the urge to rejoice is the same, for the spirit does not age, only this shell in which it is enclosed.

Peace and Blessings!

Meredith said...


Let's invite all people to come out of their shells!

Blessings to you, too,

Brent said...

This could be about the Milky Way!

isaiah said...

This is simply beautiful Aki-

I'm sending this to my mother-in-law who will simply love it too.

The dance is always calling us to join in :)