Her mouth trembles
thin lips
moisture collects
in the corners like tears
hair grows on her chin
prickly weeds.
She is old
ninety-two
vulnerable
like a cup
made of dust.
I long to hear her voice
conclusions
funny and wise
but a warbled sound
drips out instead.
This is the last time
I see her
and I will never know
if her effort carried gifts
in the code of decay
or if she had already
vanished.