She wakes, the alpha female of her cotton coverings,
She stretches and creaks under waking strain found in mornings.
The bags under her eyes betray all the tiredness within,
Lifting the glass from her bedside, she takes the water in.
Cold feet stand on wooden floorboards shrinking with age of years,
They sigh under the weight of the woman and heavy tears.
Oh, the stories they could tell if they just knew how to talk,
We’ll have to make do with the stains and the white, dusted chalk.