Old Woman

Old Woman
5/19/05

A house stood on top of a hill with a mill,
Through the old house flew a clattering chill,
A woman so old that her skin turned to dust,
Was sitting and rocking a chair made of rust.
Her thoughts which were hollow and flowed with the wind,
Were focused upon a very odd dream,
Of when she was young and the house was brand new,
Her husband, alive, and her children still grew,
When clouds were from beauty,
And sunshine was warm,
But now it’s all gone like a summertime storm.
The woman was old, ancient infact,
She herself was quite the artifact.
Her name was Helena, her last name forgotten,
She used to grow corn, wheat, barley and cotton,
A dancer she was, a writer as well,
But now she’s just dust sitting out by the well,
Her hair turned to stone,
And her bones turned to glass,
Her eyes turned to diamonds which stare at the grass,
Her dress which was scarlet wore into thin threads,
Which peacefully on the dust and glass rest.
The rust-covered chair rocks no longer today,
The dust and the glass, by the wind blew away…