Crone (a birthday poem)

She wakes to creaking
consonants, old and old,
but unwritten like the Tao.
Clustered clouds,
their clingling vowels
undropped, hang
like nooses over her head,
loyal to the end. The day
begins in meditation:
cream swirling into coffee--
short the clank clank clank,
spoon against the cup.
Curious orange tabby cats
conspire between her feet.
She knows a little,
remembers less, ignores
what doesn't matter
like crumbs of toast.