Little old ladies with pink ribbons in their hair,
soft, blushed, pink cheeks that smell of violet powder
when you hug and kiss them, and pretend they will
not die nor disappear in their little blue coats,

their tiny feet dressed up nicely against the chill,
the wise smile on their lips whispering how you ought
to not love ‘em so much nor cherish them so dearly,
for when the time comes they will wave bye bye gently,

lay their fragile body and their little wrinkled
hands to rest, their soft white hair elegantly brush’d,
the wise smile on their lips now hiding their little
secrets, the memories of lives past, forever asleep.

Bethesda, Dec 1 - 2, 2000

© 2000 Sarah Pickup Diligenti