I counted the wrinkles in her hands,
Whom life had subtly passed by.
She got no visits and no mail,
No one phoned to say hi.
On the table by the window,
A lovely portrait of her youth.
With feeble hands she caressed
The image that so seemed to sooth.
I promised her, sometimes, to visit
And to think of her each day.
It’s her time now, but mine will come;
For I shall wear her shoes some day.
© 2009 by W.S.
Walterrean Salley
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/it-s-her-time/
