February 14, 2015
In the hand mirror’s surface,
the eyes she sees keep a teary shine.
Not a reaction to a sad affair,
nor to a lingering cold,
nor to an onion cut
are these the reasons it is so.
It is the weepiness of age,
as tears run through the creases
loss of youth has left.
Eye blinks no longer fulfill their purpose.
No more is it enough to cover.
No more is it enough to expose, the glass,
to rid it discretely of the moisture,
through which the color of her windows still reflect
the fanfare of the past.
Her thoughts are pure,
though possibly irrelevant.
Now it has become
tiresome to convey her point
which she is desperate to clearly vent.
She deeply sighs.
Confused are familiar faces,
blind themselves to know her mind
through her stained glass eyes.
Her logic takes a different path
as her loves believe.
To her she speaks a flawless rumination
of the surrounding room she sees.
Her eyes stare wide,
mountain tunnel sturdy in belief,
attempts to communicate her meaning
to the others fail clearly.
With her spirit,
a collapse of intensity there will never be,
even as her mirrored tears blend with the soothing sea.
Mary Jane Goodman