Put away the camera, set aside the cup.
The car is backing away.
Take the sorrow, pick it up;
Tomorrow is always waiting.
I see them only in picture frames now.
The faces I have touched so many times.
The hearts, the arms, the souls,
The lives once all tangled up with mine.
Memories warp and fade
Like the photographs that remain.
Purpose evades me relentlessly.
Outside the window pane,
The raindrops collect,
And run down the glass
Turning the window putty into rot.
As it rattles, I catch a glance
Of decomposing lilies in the yard,
Another winter is on the way,
So many will have passed that I lose count.
I have to check the birthdays
On a calendar, now uncluttered by
Appointments or reminders.
I have nothing to keep track of
Except this emptiness of hours,
The silence of the rooms and halls,
A cupboard keeping just enough for me.
Yes, a phone will ring sometimes,
And I will have the family
At certain holidays,
Gatherings that end too soon,
With long goodbyes after which
I sit in silence in my kitchen,
Sipping concentrated coffee,
As the cat stands on the windowsill.
What happens to the purpose
When the purpose is fulfilled?
I keep a simple house, now.
No voices, few decisions, or none at all,
Just wind chimes and blankets,
And the pictures on the wall.