Grandma Hope

 

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She is as she has always been, every feather

precisely placed like a great bird.

Clothes so naturally arranged it seems

they could never part with their frame.

Such is the anatomy of her wardrobe.

:

The bright pop of the jewel-toned tank-top

peeking with a curious eye, barely visible

above her breast, preened and pressed.

Gently diffusing in a gradient into her

skin, translucent and striped with veins of blue and pink.

:

Gliding up to her throat, where the vessels branch.

A fragile yoke to cup, nest-like, the necklace.

White gold set with a stone perfectly

echoing the vibrancy of the camisole

smartly shrouding the downy bosom.

:

A blazer fashioned by her own clever stitch

patterned to peak in stiff meringue shoulders

trimming the berry body with lean panels.

Three-quarter sleeves terminating in neatly folded croissants

just beyond the softly rounded, milk-white of her elbows

to effect leanness of the upper arm.

:

Highlighting the artistry of her wrist, a watch with a shy sparkle.

Piano hands cleanly manicured, naturally tapered,

hesitant, hands made for the deliberate fastening

of a button, the smooth, singular motion

adorning the lapel with the required brooch.

Her instinctual attention to detail, like a prey animal.

:

Space must be used, a musician conducting

the beautiful power of silence in composition.

Off white linen pants are the cadence,

the muted swathing of the hip, the knee.

A creamy decadence halved exactly

down the center, an ironed seam,

:

to just brush the top of the foot.

Narrow twins slipped to the tiptoes

of velvet and leather,

where she comes to an end,

and the world begins

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