Too Young to be a Grandmother

She paints the ocean

Washed and faded memories

Hiding a child's laughter in the bubbles of sea foam

Happier times float longingly

In her heavy, tired brushstrokes

The reflection of a young sun, 

The only warmth.

 

She paints the snow

Packed atop an isolated cabin

In the frozen woods

By dark, looming mountains

From afar, a forlorn luminescence

Reaches with wrinkled fingers

From a thick, wooden window.

 

She paints the flowers

From underneath dusky yellow petals

Looking up as dark olive stalks

Become muddied with brown light

Even this charity of color--

A simple facade of youth

She paints a broken illusion.

This poem is about: 
My community

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