by Joshua Converse05 Jul 2013
Now sitting in her rocking chair,
she waits on the porch by the doors
sipping slow on sweet tea or gin
with nothing left but time to spare
old now, ignored as she ignores,
and vanishing, eats less, grows thin.
Long ago in summer she lay,
and held a man who loved her touch,
those days before he went to war,
beside a lake of green and gray
they never argued very much,
he did not come back ever more.
Winter now cracks her aching bones,
her wan face through a frosty pane,
regarding the unshoveled walk,
she speaks to him when all alone,
though memory begins to wane,
she worries that the neighbors talk.
To herself almost an object,
dry and clean like an ancient book,
she knows the end of her story,
pale paper-thin her skin reflects,
if anyone came home to look;
monument to former glory.
Soon a funeral in the rain,
beside him after all these years,
a lifetime is so long to wait,
none know the story that remain,
few mourners come and less shed tears,
she meets him smiling at the Gate.