The silver maple
was shorter then
and more sun surely
reached in
the windows and the
old lady
wasn't so old, and
maybe
her husband was
here too
in this house where
I now sit
and wonder. Words gone
up
like the
heated air, through rafters
and out, scattered
and diffuse,
sounds of laughter,
love, life, loss--
for sure, grown
children came
and took stock,
discussed, maybe
argued about this
or that antique,
the house empty and
clean,
bereft, waiting for
a new set
of stories that
grow sometimes
as slowly as trees
but just
as deliberately.
