The Night of the Old

The senses sharpen,
the legs grow sharp and thin.
The eyes are half-closed,
the doors are half-closed,
and it is quiet.

No one holds out their hands.
Each day some face goes under.
Quietly there closes a memory of the world
you grew up in,
and now

you fear there is
no memory of a door
into the world
where fairy tales and wonders

would let the child
fly in silence,
would let it find,
and open
the hidden doors…

And you sit,
hushed and alone.
And you pray
that your memories will find
their way to your door.