On the porch of her house
A blind woman sits
Old but not bowed
As she casually knits
A worn weathered face
But eyes that still glisten
She stitches contented
But her senses listen
Off in the distance
A horse and a cart
In time they’ll approach
The woman takes heart
The carriage arrives
But does not pass bye
A man disembarks
The horse gives a sigh
A smirk soon appears
On her crafty old face
She rises and walks
With a sensual grace
The man’s probing eyes
Follow her every move
As she enters the house
She knows he’ll approve
Times passing seems endless
Till each reappears
He walks to his buggy
And then disappears
Not a word has been spoken
Not a kiss or embrace
But a glow has enveloped
The old woman’s face
As she stoops to retrieve
Her needles and thread
A tear on her cheek
Tells of words left unsaid
A poem by Bapcha #6