His face is old and wrinkled
A thousand tales
Etched in lines
And shiny eyes
She is so young
She has saplings
At the end of her arms
As she stands in the forest
And sings
Her plinth a tree stump
Her audience
Me and the swaying grass
Somewhere out there
Is a road with yellow lines
People busy
Going to and fro
As surreal as a telephone
Sculpted in the desert
In another life
We have a black cat
She sits on the table
And mews
No mirrors to jump through
Just gentle fur to stroke
As she moves
Silently
With grace
We remember the door
With the handle
A hand for the knocker
Please let us in
We whispered
We have a story on our face
As well
We will never be wrinkled
But will one day grow old.
