The Old Castaway

The Old Castaway

Her old hands are idle, hardly able to move,
She's just barely breathing; her heart is so grieved.
Her heavily lined face that tries to remember,
the wonderful things her hands magically weaved.

Caressed a sick brow with warm loving touches.
Sewed dresses, washed faces, and braided long hair
Planted apple trees and carrots and sunflowers tall.
Brought food to her neighbors, so thoughtful to share

Closed all the windows in lively wet storms.
Planted gardens to grow her large family's food.
She twirled the little ones and danced joyful dances.
Picked books by the armload to put into rooms.

She has no connections to those who were dear.
Her life, as she knew it, is simply just gone.
Her hands sit uselessly, unable to cling.
She no longer dreams of a new better dawn.

You see the light going out of cataract eyes.
Her days end no different, they blur into grey.
No more visits, no more hopes, everything is gone.
She has no more purpose, just an old castaway.