Windows shut.
Tight.
Breakfast table
set for one.
Worn down spot
in the bed
where she slept
for years.
And died.
Covered in dust.
Stale fetid air.
Rooms full of
a life from
the past.
Now quiet.
Mail piled up,
as if she'd be back
some day.
Yard, overgrown
with weeds.
Brown grass
standing six feet
in the air,
hiding the little stool
where she often sat
on warm Summer days
and worked in the flowers.
Now quiet.
2 comments:
If you feel like you overworked this one as well, I don't get that sense at all. It reads naturally and inspired. I get the sense that I'm staring at a still-life, which seems appropriate for the subject matter.
I noticed that the still-life nature of your poem is due in large part to your choice in verbs: shut, set, covered, piled, hiding. Everything is still. The only real action is suggested in the work the subject did in the flowers: a memory of the past.
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