I see women in prison
shuffling down halls
bent over, and nearly broken
with question mark backs
still holding onto life…
waiting for their next Spring.
In their eyes I see the smile of a young girl
who made Prom Queen, and once —
tried out for a Shakespeare play.
These women who share meals with me now —
whose laughter still rings beautiful like windchimes struck gently by the falling rain
and, wave goodnight
with arms that still love…
that still have hands that long to pick roses
grown with weathered hands
somewhere beyond these prison walls,
where they can feel young forever.