her reading

how softly she reads,
and reads
her poetry,
checking her watch, not
wanting to exceed
her time at the dais.
she opens her
book of poems and lets
them fall
out of her lips
with a soft cadence,
a walk in slippers
across the room
to all ears.
her voice is of more
interest than the words.
what brought her
here, and here again
as the years
increase.
what joy she finds
in this, at eighty-nine,
so proud of what she's
written and you, captive,
having known her
from start to finish.