angry, she turned and ran down the hill to the waters edge.

her toes misted against the tide,

a touch, a probe, a feeling

of the freezing water that seems to be

alive, watching,

waiting; for what?

 

her shoulders are wide, from the many years living,

her skin tough like leather yet delicately dotted

with little kisses from the sun. 

 

her rough figure somehow fits with the landscape,

like how the yellows and

greens blend together on the canvas.

 

her hair is just a touch of brown,

simple yet coarse strokes

that speak of braids and overexposure and a lack of proper care. 

 

and her hands, the defined valleys of wrinkles

that one would need a map to navigate,

hard and tough yet soft and gentle.

you can see it on the way she holds her grandson,

hands of experience mesh with the newborn lightness of skin.

why is she angry 

the same thing she wonders herself,

her hands perched on her hips like crows

on the telephone wire,

not staying long. her toes in the water

and her heels dug into the sand. 

one hand raised to shield her eyes from the glare off the surface,

she looks across the water to the other shore.