I couldn’t help the fall.
The years passed by,
Time was numbered
By my rings.
I watched;
Aloof;
Their words lost in the wind.
The children changed
With the seasons.
Rooms less visited,
Then empty.
Birds nested in their windows.
College and marriage ;
New children arrived;
Laughter.
Cars pull away
With promises to return.
One light in the room upstairs
One light on the porch.
The dog too old
To run after thistle seeds in fall.
Another spring returns,
The house is empty.
Nothing but a path to a paint chipped door
Strewn by nettles and primrose.
They are gone;
My sleep too long.
I have missed them.
Roots deep,
I cling to the mystery
Of children’s games, and clean Laundry on the line.
The tap, tap, of my sap in the bucket.
It was the summer wind that blew me down,
Too old,
I fall
Crushing brick and stone;
Weeds and vines caress
The altar
Of my beloved.
Brushed With Mystery 