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Old Wood

July 10, 2006 in poems

Dusty violin

leans against the dry, cracked pine

of a windowsill.

 

Outside, a field;

grasses yellow and heavy

brush the roughness

of a small, darkened cross.

 

Sunlight

rolls down from distant hills,

stretching long shadows behind,

pushing through streaked glass,

smears itself

on the unkempt oak floor.

 

Bowed cane,

reaching up against the arm

of an unvarnished chair,

held limply

in his withered hand.

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