SEASONS GROW OLD

SEASONS GROW OLD

old age -
afternoon naps
peaceful,
asleep without bitterness

his old stove
seldom used
a radio sings him to sleep -
resting now - more frequently

oh - those winter days of old
sweet breads baking on a stove,
his hands…
aren't baking now

silent
alone…
as he stares to his window pane,
tree limbs
bare
a window - covered in frost

dreaming, I suppose

"Will I see another Spring?"

your garden, twisted sticks
those friends, the crows –
have headed south

inside
almost all the time -
no energy to climb stairs
tougher then he ever dreamed.

a finger – reaches to
a frosted window pane
etching as a child
as if - he just touched snow.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved
@2010