My mother is an artist, a crafty woman, and a writer.
Sometimes she writes poetry to Kat.
She puts her nose up next to mine
She looks right at that thin gray line
She’s quite confused as she can be
My eyes are there as she can see
But she reaches out and tries to touch
Those eyes whose love she sees so much
Something’s there, it’s in between
Her eyes and mine, yet can’t be seen
She backs away for another stare
At Grandma’s glasses hanging there.