THE EMPTY LAWN CHAIR

Her wash still

hangs on the line

flapping insistently in the wind.

Colors are fading and

soon the first snow

will glaze their old worn edges.

The empty lawn chair

sits

piling up with autumn leaves

their russet hues

crackling crisply

against the

lean white wood.

While days pass and

nights fall,

the silver car stands abandoned

its engine stolen

long ago,

driven now by ghostly riders.

Nothing has changed and

everything has changed.

She was quite old.

The last time I saw her

she sat on my front porch and said,

“My, that was a good glass of water!”