Sketches Of The Widow
It is the first new spring since he died.
by Patrick O'Reilly
The larks are singing brightly in the willows.
Why and what for?
He used to sing so sweetly himself,
As he leaned in to kiss me on the cheek
After a hard day's work,
Or while toiling in the yard.
Sorrow is my yard now,
And the new grass soons burns black.
Dust of these heavy picture frames
Which bear his image and shout his name.
I should have shrouded these
In dry white sheets ages ago,
And stowed them in some dark and cavernous closet
Where they could not haunt me,
But it didn't seem right,
And the ring burned sharply on my finger the time I tried.
Married to earth,
A dead man's bride.
If only I were youger, or older,
And if only he were here today,
For the sun is warm and beautiful