Mary grows old in the hush of the hall,
her lullabies crackle through radio snow;
she counts every wrinkle like rings on the wall,
while the moon in the skylight drifts slow.
She dances with coat-stands, waltzes with chairs,
wearing the river of years in her hair;
and every lost summer comes home for the night
to sit by her slippers, warmed back into light.