A grieving widow hesitates to go on with her daily life. |
~This is a poem based on my other item called The Progression.~ Persistent sharp rays in vain scraped the slats That hid specks of dust now stopped in their tracks. Incessant ticking, one's gift of time lost, Marked the transition of once love's high cost. She stared off blindly at old sights unseen Recalling her life and what it did mean When flowered presents gave off cherished scents And slip of the ring a set alliance. When laughter provoked the same witty joke, His hair falling through her fingers evoked A snapshot of scenes, of living, of dreams, Of memories too strong to fray at the seams. Outside of her room, the sizzle of meats Seeped in their flavor and left incomplete The taste of her own, once savory, now grown As stale as a field of corn left unhewn. The cries of children, delighted with glee, Joined screams of engines throughout the city And melted to soft condolences brought By loyal friends to the widow distraught. Whispering branches became still and staid, And o'er his coffin their white buds were laid. His countenance was cold and, unto his wife, As icy as stone, unlike in real life. Her fingers reached out and wrapped round the rod. Turning and turning, the sun gave a nod Towards the ornate frame she held in her hand. The surety of change would doubtless demand That she rid her soul of embedded grief, Set down the picture and embrace belief In healing one's heart – yet she was afraid Her memories of him would thereafter fade. |