An old woman sits alone in a room
Counting words as they fall from her mouth
Creaking and groaning
Falling from her mouth
Crackling down like dry leaves
She is dying tree
With roots that feed the earth
She wears a cloak around her shoulders
Tassels brushing at the floor
Capturing dust from all the rooms
In which she's sat and spoke before
She is spooky
She is powerful
Within her darkness and light
Her ample hips covers the ground beneath
Wrinkled and fallen flesh
Her crossed feet have walked for miles on earth barren and dry
And in a garden lush and supple is where she learned to cry,
She is the woman
My old woman
Who's come for my nightmares
To ***** away the part of me that cries when she is scared,
She beckons me into the night
With long fingers
Wrinkled, knobby, soft, veiny, calloused,
And says:
'Child don't be afraid
Your time is nigh
Trust me for I am your old woman
and I lead only where you will go'
I got a cowhide rug and it gave me this poem