your trembling fingers

aren’t as sure as they used to be

as you knot a new hue

to the needles

casting off another sweater

inspired by some woolen muse.

every time i see you

you are a little quieter

you disappear upstairs sooner.

behind trifocals your wise eyes,

sagging under the weight of years,

look vaguely at me.

what do you see?

gone now, gone.

long gone.

my aging eyes

behind bifocals

squint as i knot a new hue

to the needles.

and when i look at the mirror

are not my eyes sometimes vague

as i peer at a face

that’s showing it’s age?

what do i see?