Petite Lady


I don’t know why I am plagued

With such tiredness’.

The poet remarked to a

Petite lady

With white hair and lively eyes.

‘We all feel the same’.

She replied.

‘OK: I never could imagine

How I would feel at an age

Of eighty

But I recall now my childhood

Quite vividly’.

‘Yes’. She said. ‘The same with

Me. The middle part of life

Has left no awareness of it

As if it never happened’.

She said.

‘I guess’ – the poet mused –

‘It is buried below the ballast

Of an active life

Earning a living and chasing

The stars of one’s desire’.

She smiled. ‘Indeed’.

Wishing each other a good day

We parted.

I’m on my own feet

Which still carry me

She with her rollator.

The petite lady with white hair.



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