Sharded in black, like beetles,
Frail as antique
One breath might shiver to bits,
The old women creep out
To sun on the rocks or
Themselves up against the
Whose stones keep a little heat.
Needles knit in a
Counterpoint to their voices:
Sons, daughters, daughters and sons,
Distant and cold as photos,
Grandchildren nobody knows.
Age wears the best black
Rust-red or green as lichens.
At owl-call the old ghosts
To hustle them off the lawn.
From beds boxed-in like
The bonneted ladies grin.
And Death, that bald-head buzzard,
Stalls in halls where the lamp
Shortens with each breath drawn.
