Autumn’s Fade

In her chair, by the window she sits,

Plus eighty years, with no lines on her face.

A widow, once vibrant, now stilled,

Her world confined to this quiet space.

Outside, trees move in the breeze. 

Their golden leaves whispering old tales

Of seasons past, of love and loss,

As she gazes through the windows veil.

Her hands, once nimble, now gnarled,

Her memories bloom like flowers.

The scent of roses is the touch of a lover,

Moments frozen in time’s passing hours.

Her home, a sanctuary of elegance,

Albums of well worn photographs -

Each frame a chapter of her life’s history,

As she shares her story, when with others she laughs.

The clock ticks slowly, measuring days, 

As sunlight weaves patterns on the floor.

She dreams of days pulled from the past,

Of a life unburdened, of freedom once more.

But here she remains, rooted in stillness,

A portrait of resilience and grace. 

 Her heart a symphony of bitter - sweet notes,

As autumn’s chill settles in every space.

And though her body may falter and sway

Her soul, obedient to life’s golden thread 

She has been what she set out to be:

A wife and a mother, on whom they depend