The Old Woman And The Swing

E. comes to sit in the swing,
a patch of sun slanting across her
frail legs on a
Monday afternoon
and falls, head back,
mouth open
alseep.
A furrowned brow nonetheless,
E. sleeps and she is
97 years old as she likes to say.
I toil nearby removing weeds and leaves
from the tree ring of
one of the many fruit trees here,
giving the tree
a fresh start fo the
coming winter.
I check E. to see that she is
breathing
because she is 97
and I think
it would be a sweet entry to
death for her
there on the swing,
half in the sun
on a Fall afternoon in
September.
I wish that kind of death
for her,
a soft landing as my sister likes to say,
and yet
she rises later to
push her walker forward
back to her apartment,
a lonesome figure,
a prickly and tenacious
97 year old.