Spark

She tells history sitting near the hearth
pauses and wipes a lone tear. Flames dance like art
in her glasses perched slightly askew.
Choose your story from her grocer’s mart
of delicacies now too hard
for more than tasting just the salted part
that rolls across a wizened tongue.
She didn’t twist your muscled arm
into proper submission, a farce
of respectful attention. So, what harm
do you do when you refuse to see
the rain fall into her heart?
To focus on the day is hard, oh, so hard.
But! Open doors to days long-gone and clouds part
allowing gentle fingers to lovingly wrap memory’s shawl
’round her bent form – all she needs is one wee spark.
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