And bending form,
The smoke of graying hair
Startle the years
And race them closer to
Their end.
What will be left to her
But what the feeble have:
A weakened mind and
Woeful eyes--bewilderment?
Confusion assails these interim years
As composure and creation reel into
A crevasse, the rumored
Drowning vortex--
As life becoms uncharted,
Spinning mercilessly between the
Tumultuous swirling
And the rocks on the shore
That can no longer
Be trusted...
But then the reader considers,
Raising her eyes from the text:
"They also serve who stand and wait."
