by Bobbi Sinha-Morey
On perfect days if you looked
through the small oval window
you could see an old woman
sitting by herself inside her
darkened home, a duplex by
the road, no front yard but
a patch of yellowing grass
untouched by the spring.
Seldom did fingers of light
land on the floor inside her
home; and, so small and thin,
she looked like a folded angel
who was hiding her wings.
A woman who had given up
inside, whose dignity held
her head in place, and she
shared her tears with no one.
Then I saw her perfectly
preserved face; she looked
like my mother, and I thought
to myself, this is how I will
be when I grow old.
Category: Poetry, SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU online creative writing