Olivia

Ninety seven year old bones
broken, pinned, left hanging
in their attempt to heal.
And skin, surgically split
the edges touching
refuse to mesh.

Nothing works anymore
the way it once did
when marrow filled
more pliant bones.

Yet in spite of this decay
your spirit flickers bright
dulled from time to time
by fear
then shining steady.
Your smile gives lie to fate.
And I do not know
if your hope leaps tenderly
toward this life
or the next.

From A Hermit Holds My Heart
Ellen Porter
Benetvision