Widower

By | 1 February 2019

in the sink his hands
his weathered palms
he barely breathes
at flowers springing into bloom
bursting into fruit
a love he can’t deny
scratching in the dirt
bloodied feathers
he barely notices
and the dread that’s risen in him
crossing his path
sliding under the house
the book lies open
the only comfort
still in the water
the unwashed dishes
as he stares unseeing
at buds on the trees
his back aches as it always does
broken eggshells scattered and
in their pen the hens
piled against the fence
his eyes are blurred by tears
unseeing he watches
a red bellied black
behind him on the table
words underlined in red
for his fallen face
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