Widow at the Window

                                                       

         Widow at the Window            

Perched like a gazing mourning bird 

          on a worn, wooden windowsill,

She waits alone at spring's noonday window

Where shadows tiptoe through sun-streaked sheers

Onto tainted tones of creamy lace tablecloths.

Lost in a solace place

where no one knows her,

              where no one can harm her,

              where no one can tell her who and how to be,

She has learned not to listen to her innermost voices,

       whining wiles of their most painful choices.

      Time always tells her so,

             (Or else she might never know.)

               Her God always listens.

                Her God always hears,

       even in His soulful solemn stillness.

Yet, fate falls deaf upon scarred ears 

     that can no longer bear to listen

           without trickling tender tears of pain

                 that have held back far too many centuries 

                     of too much trouble in their undoing.

Tears that were always watching and crying,    

        over an old man's body, time torn and dying,

            praying strength to leave, then staying,  

              emptiness craving pity yet never saying.          

Leaving behind his humblest honor.

Living beyond his precious pride,

Drudgery drug him down into a darkened grave

     where he remains enslaved deep inside.

             Lost in a solemn place 

              where no one knows him,

             where no one can harm him,

             where no one can tell him who and how to be.

~P.S. Colley~

c. 2024