Only 8 weeks previous
all the trees were bare,
there were no secrets here.
Sun shone harsh upon the snow,
crusting roofs and porch and lawn.
The stream beyond,
other houses yonder,
well traveled road out front,
nothing to distinguish,
not unusual the view.
Then 8 weeks hence
leaves have come again,
the lawn is green and lush
becoming over-grown.
Birds have found the bird bath full
of mossy moldering brew.
Insects crawl and spiders weave,
caterpillars inch their way
and munch their fill,
squirrels forage
here and there,
upon the ground
and up in branches
tree to tree.
No one lives here anymore.
Who once did is not so clear.
The iron gate is broken,
there is no name upon the door,
only Mother Mary's visage
looks out upon the porch.
All the doors are locked,
all windows covered.
Rusted garden tools lean against back steps
leading up to clouded panes of glass,
beyond which sit four
empty pots for planting,
a broken bag of soil,
and one stained set of gloves.
Easy guess this was a woman's home.
No doubt she lived alone.
There are no swings or trikes or balls
lying out upon the lawn.
But in past she had a husband,
his tractor, saws, and hammers
rust within the shed.
Perhaps the houses near
sit on land that he once worked.
Who knows what tragedy
pinched the growth of her life's line.
But evidence is
for years and years she lived alone
solitarily grooming
a private shrouded seething realm
of green and light,
moist and fragrant,
her comforting intimate connection
to nature's humbling stew.
In faith, with effort diligent,
we each do forge
for ourselves
what joy and meaning
there is to be had
from life and love and opportunity.
In wake we leave plain testament
of what's right and wrong and true.
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Saturday, May 15th, 2010
Carlisle
PA
USA
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