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Thursday, November 17, 2005

Season’s End.

Before the entrance to his room I met him crying-
He had always taken funerals in his stride-
But the ache in his tearful eyes betrayed his collected voice.

The room was mournfully silent as sunlight streamed
Through the uncurtained windows, and I was surprised
At how bare the room looked without her hanging shadows

And signature art that told him she loved him.
Whispers of old voices- laughter, weeping, shouting
Rang in his head as I held his hand

In mine, and coughed out impatient tearless sighs.
At the wake of dawn he lifted her gently in his
Arms, she yellowed and stained with age.

Next morning I returned to his room. Raindrops
And new sheets warmed his bedside; I saw her
Again as I did yesterday. Cleaner now,

She lay insidiously quiet as before but
Still she lay by his bed and not in the little box
That was to be buried three feet underground.

His apologetic hand rested gently on my right cheek,
And slowly he began to speak decidedly:
"i want to live with the dead, my dear."

A three foot box, a foot for every year (and counting).

posted by voyeur @ 11/17/2005 01:32:00 AM