#42

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.