She wanted to sleep,
to shut her sea-shell eyes and wait
until she was remembered; found
and prised open. Maybe then she would be
finished - stable - content
with eighty good years behind her
and a few more gathered
soft and pink on the horizon.
They must have chosen a pattern
too small; she wasn't cut out
for all this confusion.
Each day a patchwork of choices unfolded
but her threadbare wisdom
couldn't keep her on course.
She wanted to slip between the seams of time
and see what she was weaving toward.
Then maybe she could grasp
the phantom thread of her future
before it was lost in the grain.