I feel your hopeless, endless grieving
and both our journeys you impede
there's reason in your remaining quick
and now, I with you, gently plead
to forgive me, let me go, allow me
move on and do what I have to do
my purpose over there is finished
apart, that is, from my love for you

A blank page staring
challenging me to fill it
with words of beauty

Mind searching for words
and thoughts to write in order
to form an image

Pen hand writes with care
to space and spell correctly
an eye-pleasing work

Then the moment comes
to share thoughts and words aloud
awaiting response

.

Just beyond the end of autumn
I hear the winter's call
and he arrives to slay the leaves
which, stubborn, clung through fall.

The land once green and full of life
has now grown cold and sere
and harvest's colors once so rife
no longer are seen here.

As white and silver cloak descends
to cover silent frozen land
air turns cold as all warmth ends
and quietens all at hand.

How selfish I must be at heart,
and claiming such is just the start,
for cowardly would fit me too.
I'm not the man you thought you knew.

We're both now coming of an age
that's like act three on our life's stage.
Our middle years are passing fast
with autumn coming near at last.

Our passion's not urgent or bright
as it was on our wedding night
but it's still more than just a spark
or memory on which we hark.

A huge old barn sitting alone
overgrown fields all around
its foundation made of local stone
with hand-hewed framework that's still sound.

The once red roof now rusty brown
with faded "See Rock City " white.
One rolling door has fallen down
the other is leaning toward the right.

All the siding's bare and gray
save peeling red beneath the eaves
betraying a well kept yesterday
now dilapidation, no one grieves.

When he left
the serpent of sparkling diamonds
which
ripples and curves and stretches
from one side of night to the other
heard my cry of anguish, and

taking pity on me

gently persuaded darkness
to hold a single jem
apart from the other jewels that stud
its black cloak

To point the way he had gone
.

I grew up a poor country girl living on the out skirts of town. We would move every year like the military form place to place and house to house within in the same little town of Turbeville.

There weren’t many neighbors, so me and my siblings, two boys and five girls, spent most of our time roaming the woods for fruits and berries. We played all the outdoors games we knew and created some of our own. Those were the days of innocence and youthfulness.