Nana

by Clarke Rubel

Looking into eyes
         that have recorded what mine will never see to recall;

Beneath brows furled
         by years of wondering,

Upon a face furrowed
         like a well-cultivated garden.

Atop shoulders less supple
         for having borne a shawl of sorrow and joy:

From which extend arms often extended,
         …and then the hands that speak
         and my hands the listeners…

Each labored movement,
         step,
         breath,
         a sympathetic wince stirs within me.

Knowing this is a consequence of fortune
         and,
having secured my own fortune through prayer,
         I run my fingers down my cheek
         --and notice a crease.