Withering

Walking,

She comes down the aisle,

Second pew, far left.

Her gait is shuffling, halting--

Older than her fifty years.

Singing,

She holds her head high,

Nodding to the music,

Choir days long forgotten,

Standing now a trial too great.

Sitting,

Her scarf-hidden ribs

Heave from the effort.

Salt-and-pepper wig shadows

Eyes full of haggard longing.

Worrying,

Her daughter wraps those

Hundred pounds in arms

Larger than that faint, frail form

And gently pulls her closer.

Helpless,

I watch.