WHAT MATTERS
Old clay pitcher still stands beside the hazy mirror
Watching gilded bowls where silken webs are spun
Sad Paisley clings to parched walls while sludge sits
In the topless tank, too late for the last trip home
Teasing drips from silvery tongues, never to surrender
Sagging floors, matching doors, swing casual fro
Windows sigh from views beheld as breezes trip
Through senile screens aware that flies forgot.
Bed of down has fled, leaving boarding bare
Stove is chill, box to dome, naught but ash remain
Linking days and years, hung for all to share
Fading prints of those, never seen again
Now, minus warmth of life, things so sad appear
Yet house and phrases matter not
Enough that love was here.
Jack Donovan 8/80
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Reminds me of the time, about 2003, when my brother took my mother to her childhood home, an old farmhouse that had been abandoned for over thirty years but still held many memories from my mother, including a few artifacts that she still remembered from over fifty years before.
Ron