The Old Lady and Her Pipe
by the Hearthside Window
She sits by the window, pipe in her hand,
A curl of blue smoke like a silken strand.
The weather may bluster, the winds may bite,
But her old clay pipe is her one delight.
“A hundred,” she says, “and not a cough,
Still climb the stairs, still shake the frost off.
They warned me once—oh, they tried in vain—
But this little pipe keeps off the pain.”
She puffs with pride, her eyes aglow,
Recalling winters full of snow.
“When the frost would nip and the fire ran low,
This pipe would set my cheeks aglow.”
“And come the summer, sweltering heat,
When stockings stick to swollen feet—
A puff or two beneath the tree,
And suddenly I’m cool as can be.”
She taps the bowl, a rhythmic beat,
Her slippers scuff the ancient seat.
“They sell their lotions, teas, and pills—
I’ve only this and strong old will.”
“Doctors tut, and children frown,
But I’ve outlived half the town!
They’ll see me walking, cane in hand—
While they queue up for rubber bands.”
So puff she does, and smiles so wide,
The years have not slowed down her stride.
“Smoke?” she says, “Oh yes, I do—
And I’ll smoke ’til I’m a hundred and two!”
For warmth or chill, for joy or strife,
She’s smoked that pipe her entire life.
A tale of age, of stubborn cheer—
And a pipe that’s outlasted every year.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 