Look into the eyes, of this weathered woman.
She has seen much and her eyes reflect.
They reflect calm like a still pond
and they reflect weary wanderings.
They reflect truth
and they reflect lies believed.
She has endured much
like an old tree.
The storms,
the droughts,
the waiting,
the dancing,
the longing to see.
To climb higher and to reach up
to the heavenly and the stars.
Yet stay grounded, in the dirt and the rock bed and the sacredness of the roots entwined with another.
Under cover of mystery they touch
and exchange the nourishment.
This weathered woman
has known sorrow,
that bowed her down and drained her blood.
She has known death
in her very marrow
and life
in her very body.
She has known very little peace,
with much fighting and harsh words throughout her life
and much judgment upon her beating heart.
Yet she can still laugh and look up and be grateful.
This weathered woman.
She has rest in her now
that cannot be denied.
Her words are less,
her dreams are few.
She knows the quiver of her spirit
has become still as it listens more and talks less.
She lives and gives for the children of the earth,
she lives and gives for the future.
She lays back and thanks God for her present
as she embraces her bonus days and she knows her promise.
Her faith waits
The Keeper Of Me 