any direction

it was the wool
hat pulled down
tight over curls
of silver hair,
the three full bags
of clothing,
at her side,
the tennis shoes
and long grey coat,
still buttoned up
to her chin,
that set her apart
from the dining
crowd. she held
a cup of soup,
that she blew on
with thin unpolished
lips, to cool
the broth, and her
ringless fingers
broke a snow of saltines
onto the top, a
glass of iceless water,
sat still,
to quell the heat
as she sipped
with two hands,
trembling the broth
into concentric
circles of life.
her calm blue eyes
questioned nothing,
asked for no one, and
when i asked her which
way could i walk her
home or to her car,
into which direction
she needed to go, she
said simply, i can
go in any direction.