(On surprising a neighbor lady at play.)
Do they matter anymore the inclinations of age?
If she stoops with a groan and grit at the knees
predisposed to care, bowed in sorrow, but
what daring here in bending plucks a dandelion
ratchets upright to puff that tuft onto
the breeze the air about her snow-globed
resolved in a weathered smile if you squint
so much like that one in the faded Polaroid?
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