Dear Soul

She is wafer-thin, though
confessing to a sturdy appetite.
Her face pale and deeply creased,
neck encasing chin, her white hair
a spin of silk a hummingbird could
nest in. She sways at my doorstep,
burdened by a bag of fresh-picked
strawberries and just-preserved quince
jam. Her watery-blue orbs smile, as
her narrow mouth catches up. Soon
we sit together, talking confidentially,
her voice so soft it strains my ears
to decipher the murmuring cadence.
But her words and the sincerity
of her request penetrate and I
respond: yes, please do pray for me.
Finally, she toddles unsteadily
back home, turning to wave once
more, a sweetly faded apparition.