Tired Eyes

Gregory Bennett

Unaware of the stranger
Taking her photograph,
She stares into the distance.
He watches through his camera lens,
Examines the folds of her aged skin
Produced by time and worry—
Faint traces of crimson
in her now opaque hair,
A hint of brightness in her now faded smile.
She looks almost ancient, he thinks

Sitting history
Living artifact

As if she can feel his thoughts,
For a moment, she is the vibrant,
Sixteen-year-old of her past
With red locks to her waist
Freckles sprinkled across her shoulders
And grains of sand plastered between toes
On a warm, endless evening
She remembers the salty ocean,
Cool sand, and soft wind
And closes her tired eyes, content.

Her observer, worried, comes to her side
Watching for a breath

“Ma’am, are you all right?”

“Shh,” she sighs,
“Let me listen to the breeze.”