Her eyes glazed and glossed from
years of staring straight ahead.
Eyes that are, for the first time, turned downward.
They stare at her tattered apron and
secondhand shoes,
but see nothing.
Her mind is far away, yet so near
A single sound could snap it to focus.
She is tired.
She aches for rest.
She has demanded it.
And so, here she is.
Her silhouette frail against the
Northern wind
She stands along the bank of the river
and remembers being young and careless
And wades in.
