she walks softly
over the rug the grandmothers
wove knot by silken knot
as the scent of apricots filled the air
and the dates ripened on the palms
toward the center there’s a dark stain
from tea spilled long ago,
a brew fragrant with herbs, spices and memories
though no one now living could recall
the shock or jostle and the splash
the once-bright hues of the grand design are faded with time and wear into
a muted beauty; careful mending
speaks of love well-worth the tending
every old thing tells a story
she whispers, waltzing from the room
now she is part of its story, too
