She is translucent,

with beautiful, blue bell eyes.

Her songs are falling asleep again. 

I sing them to her, keeping memories near.  

Last week, she raved about Warren,

Warren who lived next door

and says they are married. 

 “He’s studying to be a doctor,”

she told me yesterday, with pink lipstick on,

wearing her knitted turquoise top,

linen pants and socks with red hearts,

her blue bell eyes full and reflecting light.

Today, when I visit she is in bed,

her eyes, a waning crescent.

Warren’s been moved to memory care 

and she can’t remember his name.