Seasons Pass
The Chair
The old man sits in a chair by the door
waiting for someone who's been there before.
His skin is as thin as rice paper page,
drooping face speckled with spots of his age.
Drowsy head bobbing with white hair askew,
as light leaves the sky and lawn fills with dew
No headlights appear and shaking his head
Weary he rises and shuffles to bed
The old man sits by the door in a chair
no children or friends come visit him there.
Stirring as thoughts of them surface and rise.
With muscles twitching he opens his eyes,
through rheumy lenses and limited view
he sees youth passing, amazed how time flew.
The door remains closed, sealed tightly with rust.
The chair's now empty, filled only with dust.
The Sink Window
The old woman stands and leans on the sink,
she stares through windows to look and to think
Her steps now falter on knees filled with pain.
Wistfully her eyes stare down the long lane.
Wrinkles map her face. Age spots back her hands
wearying quickly from daily demands
No family’s seen, she turns and shakes her head,
closing the curtains she hobbles to bed.
The old woman wakes and on the sink leans,
her body is bent, face lined with ravines.
She stares at her hands, once supple and sure,
resting on the sink, misshapen and sore.
Puckered lips sag into a toothless frown.
Her youth’s flown away and her clock’s wound down.
The curtains are closed as stray breezes sigh,
The windows are dark. The sink is now dry.
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