We found he iron garden-gate
linked to white pickets
hard and wondrous
to open. Ornamentation dated it.
Up the walkway then,
into her stifling house,
where she sat in her purple
dress and parchment skin,
saying what she thought
her whole life had taught
her. Almost too old to pity,
she was too austere to embrace.
The voice seemed to come
from years ago.
Our minds assured us
we would never grow
that weird if ever we
grew that old. Our minds
were confident we could
open the gate again, get
away. It stood out there
in advanced darkness. Inside,
the seconds of her clanking clock
ate the minutes of our patience.
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