My Time Is Old

Creak. Squeak.
My old rocker groans under me as I shift
under layer of worn quilts that
do nothing to ease the chill seeping to my bones
The cold creeping into my sighing soul.

Sun-warmed
Smooth
Rough.
The rocks make a wave
of shape as I run
my fingers over the rows
Reassurance that one thing hasn't changed
fills me.

Even as I look straight ahead,
gone is the bare chestnuts
replaced by babbling birds
swiping squirrels
and flowers awakening
with a yawn and stretch.
The layers of mountains
go on forever,
blending into the blue sky.

Creak.
I know I'll never make it out of here.
My soul is old,
my time here is old
and done.
I only wish I could leave April with family.

Poor girl
all alone
At least she can read-
what I'd give to read:
Anything.
April's voice gives me
comfort where no amount of blankets can,
Soothing
Rolling it's way into my mind
The words run like water
Over jagged rocks
There may be breaks
there may be rough, bubbly patches
But it breaks through
Strong.

---
I wrote this for my English class. It is from the view of Aunt Birdy in Ghost Girl by Delia Ray.