She sat crossed-legged and straight,
her back supported only by habit and resolve.
A shawl loosely folded around her shoulders,
promising relief, born only in faith
that it would provide the necessary warmth and comfort
throughout the cool fall evening.

Her face was still.
Wrinkles winding pathways around its surface.
Some lines were new and light,
barely claiming residence to the spot they occupied.
Others were deep and grooved, carved into permanence
by a sculptor’s harsh hand and a relentless sun.
Still others were worn and faded,
indifferent to the story that once marked their birth.
Now scrubbed and erased,
no longer a scar, yet the memory remains.

Her hands were strong and patient.
Slowly and precisely guiding the layers of dried grass and vine.
The light, now dim as the sun lowered in the sky, did not
disturb her rhythm.
Fingers once timid and unsure,
now easily sensed their direction
and gracefully laced the twine,
row after row, around the universe that was hers.

Her eyes were not vacant; they were deep.
Her stillness hid the symphony with which her prayers danced.
It was never the same:
sometimes a monotone low and intense,
sometimes a climax of discovery and decision,
often a lullaby secure and reassuring
offering communication of love and tenderness.

She followed the path of the sunset and slowly stopped her work.
Her eyes caught the colors that painted the sky,
as she silently blessed the mother and caressed the earth.