It was unclear but the image persisted…
In some dark place, a simple dwelling perhaps
Some outpost forgotten by the world
An old lady with smooth face, likely blind, sat by a pile of coals.
Glass beads, one after another, passed through her smooth fingertips,
Held and turned slowly before falling
Quietly over her covered knees, clothing worn smooth.
Dark red, browns, greens, blues
Sewn together with a fine, strong thread to form a larger piece,
Her expression changing with each new glass
A smile, a frown, eyebrows twitching with each new vision.
Seamlessly, they passed through her flickering fingers,
All the while a throated murmur that rose and fell
Carrying with it the secret story
Of each tumbling bead.
Constant Voice 