Halfway to Ninety

halfway to ninety and grey-haired
dotage, the infants born with
indignant screams, flailing their arms
into hers, pillar of salt dissolved
into a river
soaking the scrubs of
the doctor, down to
the soles of his shoes

silver threaded through brown, the
tapestry woven and rewoven whilst
the ghosts of suitors wait in the
anteroom--they are as air, no
burden upon the household

and where, from here? the road,
though straight, crops up, uneven,
stubborn patches creased and
cracked, though her soles,
her soul, has adapted to it all,
ripping the bandages off at intervals,
ruthless, relentless, without a word.

a room perhaps, of quiet, where
burnished-gold afternoon turns
into slate-blue evening, the
birdsong singing her, finally, to sleep