bozymandius


that weeping willow still stands
in front of your house, an old man
with his back bent towards his brown-boned feet,
his long hair making the wind visible.
around him,
the yard is being tended by the weeds.
the picture window behind him is black:
no one lives there now. it's an empty tomb
where memories hide in the corners
of your room like tiny cobwebs.
and now, sitting beneath him, leaning
against his wrinkled legs,
i wonder if you knew.
as if to answer, he quietly drops
a kaleidoscope of shade upon my legs.

© Mark E. Dougherty