her new poems

the bricks are loose.
but she
pushes them
back into place.
they're ancient,
browned
from sun and winter.
no mortar left to hold
them still.
each step she takes shakes
them, crumbles what's
left.
pieces fall and tumble,
but she doesn't care.
she's old and new
in her wisdom years.
back in they go,
and the next time too
when she comes down
the stairs
with tea, a book,
a handful of
her new poems, happy
just to see you.