Prelude to Widows and Successions

 

The turning of the page,
the waning of the moon,
the crispness of the leaves as they crackle 'neath my feet.
How long has my bower been barren?
Has it been as long as that?

Once was my bed full--
full of the sweat of a man and
panting laughter and sting of love
and the promise of babes to my breast....
Once was my bed full.

 

The turning of the page,
the bleak ebony night,
the rattle of the leaves as they blow against my window--
     my window, drawn and shuttered against the night's biting wind--
How long has my bower been barren?

I would say, "Where have the years gone?"
if it hadn't been that I had been
secretly watching them creep along, creep away,
full of stealth and shadow.
I would say, "Where have they gone? Where?"

 

The turning of the page,
the waxing of the moon,
the gold and white of buds as they burst upon the branch.
How long has my bower been barren?
As long as that?

I will throw back the shutters
and allow the light to pass--
     to come into my room with its
     fickle promises of warmth, of sight--
And if it be that I am stricken blind ...
well, then ...
so be it.

 

The turning of the page.

 

return to Poetry index - Hagenspan home page

© 2007 Robert W. Tompkins. All rights reserved.