Wrinkled with age,
Freckled by time,
A story for every scar,
Every line.
She is weaving an intricate pattern,
Only her hands know what is to come.
Tilting her head upward,
She looks around for inspiration
The ripples on the water
Seem like the wrinkles on her hands.
The lily pads speck the pond
Like freckles dot her hands,
Did your hands really wrinkle with age,
Freckle by time,
And is there a story for every scar,
Every line?
Drawn from her distant shores of imagination,
It seems like she hadn't noticed me until now,
She speaks as if not to disturb the angels,
My hands weaved the story, I lived it.
