Elsie, a tribute

This is a tribute a lady I loved very much, who died in her 90's. Elsie Whipped cream hair, cobweb skin, egg-shell eyes, no light within. Paper lips and whiskered chin, stubborn heart that won’t give in. Foetal hands stiffly furled like her tresses, tightly curled. Blue-white nails that time has pearled, shrunken figure, shrunken world. Sight and sound come creeping soft, fragrances too rarely waft, senses all are held aloft and memory is absent oft. Careful footsteps, darting tongue, weary robes on bent back hung. Shallow breath from dogged lung and yesterdays to walk among. Seven clocks to chime her fears making light of ninety years. Their ticking falls on deafened ears though time left dwindles like her tears. Cup and saucer, each half-full; luke warm brew -- acceptable, the mountain grown from winding wool a final testimonial. She prays for sleep to steal her in, to smooth the wrinkles from her skin, and yearns for new life to begin but fears her want is one more sin, which keeps her here to yet endure, denying her the easy cure, the sweetness of an overture to something greater she is sure. A narrow view through dusty pane revives her once, and once again. This shrunken world, her last domain, is all that’s left of mortal stain.