wrinkles

Wrinkled, but your eyes harbour light,
deep light.
There is something about your smile,
you mean it.
A deep sense of loss lingers,
beneath the words that you say,
your voice makes me catch my breath.
What tornado, what hurricane,
what dark squall had the right,
to steal your pride?
I want to hug you.
I want to take you home.
You should not be here.
You remind me of Grandma,
wrinkled.
You look seventy two,
You are fifty eight.
Your white hair pulled back in a loose pony,
Your warm vest over pajamas.
Who stole from you?
Wrinkled.
Determination seeps from the lines,
the lines that are etched into your face.
Who let this happen to you?
Ten years. Ten years with your husband.
You are so thankful.
I would be mad at God.
Cancer stole from you.
No children, you say it is your biggest regret.
Could you do anything about it?
You have children now.
They don't have homes.
They dig needles into their arms,
to forget,
They drink and almost freeze to death,
They do anything they can,
to push away the memory that they don't have,
a mother,
a grandmother,
with wrinkles,
Like you.

I wrote this about a Lady we met named Ellen. She was homeless, in the drop in shelter. A beautiful woman.