In a diner, making for
the coffee stand,
I paused for an aged woman,
as fragile as a shell.
Our paths wove together
in a stitchery of chance.
She would have given way
as rough custom demands:
old age bows to youth, female to male,
height and impatience trumping
courtesy and care.
"Thank you for noticing me,"
and her eyes glinted a little.
"When you're my age you are
invisible."
In the counting world
youth rises and whirls,
broad strokes and flash
springing off the feet.
Old age lifts memory
to its ear, a conch shell's
far-off ocean calling
faintly from within.
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Dante's Woods 
This makes me think of my grandmother toward the end of her days, hunched and so much smaller than her 6 foot frame of my youth. She’d always love when someone opened a door for her or let her sit. To be seen-that’s what we all want.
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