I can see through her sliding glass door

     every day as I walk my dog early,

          before the morning light 

               has cast its hopeful ray

                    onto a single blade of grass.

The old woman sits in the same place

     in her living room, a tattered cloth 

          recliner chair with its dirty off-white 

               brocade pattern, and an obese yellow cat 

                    that is always asleep on her lap.

An aluminum walker waits at her knees. 

     A plain wooden cane leans on the chair, 

          both probably part of an intricate 

               network of aids needed 

                    to get herself into a standing position.

Her hands are knots huddled 

     together on pink rosary beads.

          Crooked, swollen fingers 

               take in one bead at a time 

                    with a cadence set by lips 

once young, plump, and dumb,

     but now as thin and sharp 

          as albatross wings coming in 

               for a landing on a buoy

                    in the middle of the ocean. 

‍

I’ve never seen or heard her up close, 

     but I don’t think she’s praying for herself.

          The whole thing is too disciplined,

               too focused, too entrenched a duty.

It’s an act of war, an act of love.

     It’s a shield for the world 

          and the kids and grandkids 

               that live in it. A shield for the guy 

                    who delivers her meals,

                         and the beautician who also does toenails.

It’s a shield for that lady and her ugly dog 

     who stop on the sidewalk 

          by the lilac bush every morning, 

               and watch through the glass door.

‍