at eighty nine

when her
eyes open to see me
standing
there.
there is the slight
flicker
of recognition
before the lids go down.
her lips
are dry.
her hands wrapped in cloth,
the blankets
found,
wrapped tight up
to her neck.
her silver hair,
the pins,
the band,
an angelic crown.
she's in some dream,
I hope.
she's young, she's holding
her child
up to sun
or moon. she's free from
where she is,
trapped
inside this grey strange
room.