Hours fly away
The clock still ticks,
Days go by-
The wounds still have a story to tell.
And even when the rain
Floods her backyard, she sits
Her eyes dry
But her face wet with tears,
She has not spoken for years
Yet she has so much to say.
I have seen her on the same doorstep
For all I can remember,
Her hands folded in her lap
Her stained rags dangling
By the last few strings of hope;
But her eyes surprise me
The only signs of a life deep inside
The stone core-
Flickering time and time again,
Refusing to end it all
Until it is time.
The outstretched hands of time
Have not touched her,
The vines keep her
From the wingless flights of passion;
Her front porch has turned yellow
Spring never treads into her wasted garden,
Rust in her hair
Weed at her feet,
She sits there
Frozen in time
Like nothing has changed.

Some things never change.
The lonely church still stands alone,
And the dying apple tree,
And the crooked church bell,
And the lady at the church door.
Some people just pass by
Some come along, pause, sigh and leave
Some say how beautiful she used to be,
I always say hello to her,
She never smiles
She never does to anybody.
I know she has suffered-
Enough to make speech seem vain;
But her marble eyes speak to me
In a language I know not,
What do I see? Is it love or is it pain?
Or perhaps both.
Her face darkens with the dusk
Perhaps fading into the distant dream-
Of another sun
Of another hope
Of another day.
As I walk away
She looks on
With the same indifferent stagnancy;
I understand that look
Not having seen any other,
On her expressionless face
And her inert mouth
Speaks a language of the wordless…
I promise, to be back
For I know somewhere, she wants me to.