Young girls speak blithely
of summer days
like bright beads on a string.
But the clay beads of my days
hang loosely
on their yellowing twine,
shrunken and rattling
like my breath.
In, carefully,
and out.
I used to have
too many beads to count,
each one round
and full of forever.
Now I have
fewer each time
I run their crumbling edges
between my fingers,
and they whisper
of dust and nothing.
I refuse to count,
choosing instead
to watch
the young girls
as they live,
wreathed
in their bright
rosaries of life.
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