Martha

Blueish grey sweater sits beneath a black scarf
that swirls and twirls around her neck
almost as beautifully as the veins circulate
the top of her hands.
I have missed those hands, the way they
illustrate her point and make fists that illustrate
her fierce force--a living, breathing, sometimes suffering
force that refuses to look away, that refuses to look too long.
She sees me.
She always has.
I see a horizon in her, something way way beyond here,
yet obtainable somehow, just not now. Her spontaneous, self-effacing
laughter and southern accent crystallize in my consciousness, lure me
out of the scared places into the spacious places. The spacious places.
Honesty there, with her, in her.
Such dignity and grace, in that one body, on that one face.
Her gaze is a spacious place.
She sees me.