her hands

her hands are crumpled.
her face is lined,
time has passed too quickly,
life has been unkind.
she has drifted back slowly
lost in sorrow and grief,,
she has sought the wrong
avenues of relief.
she has thought of quitting,
seeing only dark,
then in the midst of this silence,
she has felt that spark.
although the clock is wicked,
time plays tricks to the eyes
and mind,
her belief in love,
never fell behind.
and in this silly, perhaps
childish notion,
she has found the sources

of her devotion...