K. Cronick
When
we grow old,
and are often
grieving,
and the
last
of our grandchildren
is finally
leaving,
we hold
onto memories
in long,
dear musings.
Our family
line
will barely recall,
the old, hollow
house
encircled with
trees,
its leaves
of green lime.
Its sweet-scented
breeze,
with its prancing
brown-grouses,
its pots
of fresh thyme,
its orchids
and bromelias,
its wide-leafed
bananas.
Then deafly
we limp,
from room
to room,
down the still
halls,
and talk
to the faces,
dynasties framed
along the old
walls.
Sorrow becomes
a dear,
old friend,
reminding us
of
all that was then
in a
long-ago time.
