What became these days
Here behind frosted glass
Here where patience still won’t answer
And my children echo on yellow walls
This living down to threadbare rugs
This hope to tease despair
To turn a longing into song
There was the smell of sun warmed grass
There was a drink of sea worn tears
The flavor of a kiss I never tasted
Those broken words
Those nightingales turned to larks
Old letters turned to an old man’s scars
What stumbling
What chance breath
Became these days
Angie Flanagan
Find Your Story 
This is amazing, Angie! And even though I know the picture is of an old Italian woman, her face looks exactly how I imagine Mrs. O’Malley’s to be. 🙂
Me too! I saw her when I was at The Met, and it was love at first sight. Thanks for reading, Diane!
Hey, you are right, Diane! She is exactly as described by Angie! What a captivating piece of work that any “ol woman” could relate to. I think you captured her gaze (as did Degas) and what perhaps she has been pondering all those years behind that glass as the world past before her. What beautiful and lyrical phrases and so simply presented. Write on!