Sonnet Three. Seventh Age
There is a restless
weariness in these old hands
Deep wrinkles craze across the cheeks that love caressed.
Something rankles her spirit, what she understands
Has no merit now, what was is long gone to rest,
No salves can wake again that bright intelligence.
The years condemn her , merciless continuance.
Yet , pure spirit can flame the old belligerence,
The flash of insight, the old, shrewd, perceptive glance.
What youth and spring once knew are left in photographs,
Long lost in some upheaval long ago ? her soul
Seeks solace, searching those she loved, now epitaphs
Her dignity is peeled away in layers, her role
Seems just to breathe. Her days, her prayers need an end-
Yet that tough frame just bends with time, wills no amen.