There she sits, down
in the dumps at the summit
of her sadness, that in some
days (please don´t count)
will slip and snowball—
God help the life below.
Widow, orphan, abandoned mother,
she´s stored up enough
gloomy afternoons to build
an avalanche;
it might take one solitary voice
bellowing one stupid word
to set the whole crush off.
So if you see her greet her
with a whisper;
offer to help her
down the stairs:
she has a bad knee
on account of all
the stationary climbing
she´s done to lower her weight.
It went nowhere:
the heaviness is still on top.
May God stretch out his hand
an inch or two from heaven
and hold the whole teetering mass
in a lasting balance.