Thursday, November 17, 2011

The Day Granny Cried

Her eyes blinked;
The thinking, moist eyes.
And drops of salt filled up,
And quickly disappeared.
They weren't pearls of joy.
They came from a land
Of discarded love.
Of let-down expectation.
Of the wooden stove
And of frustration.

Though wait I did,
For the tears
To flow,
Fall,
And be forgotten,
They disappeared,
As if by magic,
As some may say    
As if by courage
Or by all earthly power
She could at once muster,
Or, perhaps, absorption. 

Her strong, steel eyes
(For that they were.)
The thinking, moist eyes    
They looked out into space,
They hoped,
To find Hope.