Unsheltered winds bring forth the rain, Crying her tears of heartache again. Ten years? Fifteen? It matters not, She still thinks about him a lot.
In sickness, in health, a lifetime ago, Restless mind thinks of him refusing to let go. The rocker on the porch the dreary morn, Adds fuel to the fire from a heart torn.
Across wildflower meadows, late evening sunsets, Hearts touched, so in love from the day they met. Slow motion chose chapters buried with age, Eyes open, eyes shut haunted by the final page.
She remembered his face, his eyes, the moment death came, The last whisper of his breath as he called her name. And the winds whispered as her tears told of heartache, Knowing that it was real and not a mistake.
Her world crashed as they took him away. She could not comprehend, A fall; such a long, long fall, eyes on him from beginning to end. Many times, he had climbed those trees, many times branches to trim, Expert he was, but such a wind came along catching the limb.
His scream echoed as thunder, her soul grabbed by fear, Crowd gathered she ran towards him just to be near. “Move,” She screamed “Let me through I need to see,” Face in her hands now she wanted rid of this memory.
They had no children, no money, just love, and an old homestead, It did not mean much, now that he was dead. Fifteen years of her life belonged to him, and she could never forget, And though their lives shattered she had no regrets.
From the old wooden rocker, she rose, and hobbled back inside, A song came to her lips as she stretched her arms wide. He had held her as they danced more times than a few, And a torrential downpour of tears, “Oh God what am I going to do?”
Fitfully she slept that night. Until morning, she saw his smile. He held her in his arms and whispered, “only for a while,” They danced. In the wildflower meadows, together they lay, She never returned home. Death held her hand tightly that day.
© Cynthia Clark