She is strangely beautiful
this woman in the mirror,
a bit more than sad, just at the eyes
the mouth too easily laughing
as if nervous you won't.
She drifts as you speak to her
catching only half what you say
but most of what you don't.
She will remember your pet's name
but not yours.
She is strange and sometimes beautiful
this girl in woman's muscles
driving the mature bones as if newly licensed.
She is skeptical of her own heart's guidance
but has learned, at least,
to listen to her cat's.
She is strange and sad, beautifully
graceful under pressure
rising to an occasion like a dryad from an oak
performing acts of sacrifice
to appease a host of gods
turning in silent sadness about her solitude
wondering like an old woman
where all her friends have gone.