Weathered hands clasped in prayer,
she cradles the ache of August afternoons—
when distant voices still echoed
through rooms that tasted of lavender and loss.
Marble eyes that never blink,
watching over graves and girlhood dreams,
her dress eternally windblown,
frozen in perpetual mourning.
I press my palm against her cold cheek,
feeling the weight of all we've forgotten.
-created with images made by me
-all poetry copyright to ©Stacy Stephens