The Dance of the Nonagenarian
Her head was bent; her hair was gray,
her voice a forced near-whisper.
She'd worked and played in summer sun;
Now, winter's blast had kissed her.
She could walk only a halting step,
when helped from chair to chair
Her vision dimmed by age's ills,
social exchange now rare.
She'd held back when urged to gather
to hear music, but would relent,
and guided by an aide complied,
sat among the residents.
A musician who often played for dance
volunteered to entertain,
with nostalgic strains and old-time tunes.
he got toes to tap again.
The musician's wife came to her side,
helping her to join, and she
feebly forced a hint of smile that once
The musicians wife took both her hands;
her smile warmed, revived, entranced.
And, as she moved her hands in time,
with her hands and heart--she danced.
©07/23/2011 Carol Morfitt