she slips off the gloves, hiding
her gnarled hands and twisted fingers,.
picks up the thread and begins;
twisting and knotting purposefully
pulling and tying...
she sits in silence
rocking forward and back.
even with the light on, she sees little,
captured, still, by brilliant thought.

her eyes, liquid pools,
nectar, sweet and sticky,
filled with remembered joy.
she rocks,
her hands weigh with purpose, 
not feeling her fingers cramp
nor sensing the darkness take her.
she falls into the rhythm...
as a young girl will twirl in sunlight,
and tumble in the grass.
 

11-5-98
Diana