by Don Riggs

She retains a sparkle in her eyes still,
but she is little more than a light shell
of her former self. How much, in the skull,
determines the person we are, or shall
become? She can eat a meal and not spill
anything, retains enough of that skill
and enough control so she doesn't soil
herself–none of that embarrassing smell.
If the eyes are the windows of the soul,
she stands there, inside, leaning on the sill,
watching, unable to name, a squirrel
undulating through trees, as if a spell
had been cast, pricked herself on a spindle,
and wordlessness covered her like a shawl.