On the Edge of Time

an old woman sits

her legs a-dangle

swinging gently

the map of a

moving life

traced on those legs

regal purple bursts

of exquisite webwork

delicate and strong.

the largeness of

Life

that was youth

escapes her now and

small efficiencies

consume her thoughts

so that no wildness is allowed and

pleasure makes no waves

placid she can cope

inviting no once-blessed extremes

of bliss or despair

to rattle the fragile cage

made of memories

carefully selected

to form her refuge now.....

but the discipline of restraint

chafes

blisters of longing

harden gradually into

calluses of apathy

things unspoken

are clutched in her heart

sculpting the landscape

of lives entwined by

deeds done and

words avoided.

And so the questions had to be asked.....

Who are her dead and

how did they die and

did they live first or

die aborning?

Who did she love and

how did she love and

when they loved her back

did she believe it?

Where does she hurt and

who did she hurt and

when they forgave her

did she believe them?

When did she hope and

how did she hope and

when did all the hoping

become a trap?

What were the dreams and

what were the worries and

when they clashed did she

forget how to dream?

The answers drift silently just out of reach.....

The dead will not speak

The beloved cannot be heard here

Forgiveness is hard to believe in

Hope must be exorcised

Dreams die

And worry just makes her tired

On the Edge of Time

it is the edge

itself

that beckons.....