The old woman sat with her knotted hands... moving with the grace of age... as she worked out a tale in her sandpaper voice and her eyes always ablaze.
Why is she old... and never dead? They whisper among themselves.. Is she a witch or a wise old crone... some things u can never tell.
The child wandered in, sat before her… and in certain tones with fearsome smile
demanded an answer instead.
The old woman started.
Looked at eyes deep in fire... red & blue,
golden & smoke…
and breathed a hope… Ask me the right question, she said.
The child wondered... almost ordered again... for many were swayed by the quiet voice & the sure eyes…
but here was water... and the reflection deeper than any he had met.
Neither wise nor witch you be... but old is old with many a memory in cold that I could ask from ye…
but your magic is deeper than any odd remembrance... it is life and heart and soul...
so I ask a tale, yes still a tale... both long and short, lonely and bold...with veins and wine, hurt and shine, clasping hands bereft...
Old woman tell the story of your eyes this day.
