Old Gals

I love that old gal,
All skinny and dry.
Eyes always worried,
Smile upside down.
The mouth of a disappointed child,
Eyes that have seen hard things.

That oldĀ paper birch out back,
Stands all lonesome,
Covered with brown, frowning scars,
Gracefully bowing under winter’s weight of snow and ice.
In the springĀ that old tree bears leaves sporting edges already brown.
Drops their weight gratefully at the first glance of fall.

Old things,
Easily injured around the edges,
Yet wrinkled and tough.
Thin as rails,
Scraggly survivors.
Maybe saints.

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