Almost Old by Fabrice Poussin

It was another day in the mid forties
she sat by the hearth in crackling odes
bones chilled in a certain darkness.

The cup steamed of a promising savor
gently in a deepening aloneness
patiently she waited for the instant.

A spark came to tease the plaid blanket
only sound when clamors rose nearby
of those who too celebrated the day of birth.

Staring within her soul at the upcoming days
she knew the dreaded memories to be shared
of a nothingness she should have known so well.

So young in her years she practiced old age
thinking of all those abandoned in winter
dying as if never they had laughed in a crowd.