A Plea

when open fields turn desolate valleys
we do not weep to see
a hag stood stout
with warts a plenty
her childhood in foot, a desperate plea

her hand tense and open
a sign in one, that reads
“stop and see the inner workings
of none other than a man”
she pleads

a memory past, of times long gone
she fails to recall it all
when her youth was once
a virtuous nature, where she stood
proud and tall

her bones turned frail
her pocket empty
her hair below her knee
knotted with handprints
of those before
still, on goes her plea

but we do not stop
to take in her ash
or the child she held once dear
for that heart has passed
and so we glance at
the lilies past her ear