Here on the outskirts of a lifetime
I sit,
I wonder,
I remember
long-hemmed afternoons
and tandem bikes
and feeding pigeons in the park
as if a pocketful of peanuts
meant a great thanksgiving–
a pale sustenance
for a band
of murmuring birds.

The mind hinges of senility–
there’s a quilting bee of wedding rings
and granny squares and little Dutch girls
trimmed in bonnets
of pink and quaint purses
empty of clutter
and the windmill sits.

The logical process of mental deduction
carries on
while the legs dangle in confusion.

I’m apt to think that the mind will prosper
as the body dwindles.

I have my mother’s hands,
and for all that ails,
I have her recipe for chicken soup.