It's Her Time

I counted the wrinkles in her hands
Whom life had subtly passed by.
She got no visits and no mail,
No one phoned her to say hi.

On the table by the window,
A lovely portrait of her youth.
With feeble hands she caressed
The image that so seemed to soothe.

I promised sometimes with her to visit
And to think of her each day.
It's her time now, but mine will come;
For I shall wear her shoes some day.

Yes, I shall wear her shoes one day
In fact, we all shall pass that way.

© 2009 by W.S.