Lilly

The Song is Still There

Time has been hard on some things, soft on others.

Hands that planted, hoed, kneaded, washed, spanked, played, and praised

are soft with disuse—

in many parts the feeling gone.

.

Where once fingers crunched numbers,

curled hair, cooked, crocheted, and quilted—

precise and prodding—

they are now in some ways unresponsive, lap-sitting, waiting.

.

And the wrinkles have come,

sagged sage,

leaking out time after time—

and it seems unfair for one so capable to be so dependent, lonely,

planted among babbling others who are reliving horrors and wonders,

imagined and real.

.

The vibrato is elastic and uncontrolled,

but the song is still there—

words carried along on the memory and soul imprint

from days and months and faithful years of

worship.

.

And the miles walked and fires stoked and kids raised

are etched in lines across your face.

Much of the meaning is tweaked or gone,

but the heart is still loving.

The dreams are misplaced,

but the mind is still dreaming

of a forever

when weakness and age is swallowed up in pure

kingdom.