The Weeping Widower
Day by day, it withers by time and the elements of the weather. The combination of stone and moss as it withstood the winds and pounding rain.A reminder.
A memory.
I see him come up the hill, dark as the feathers of a raven, eyes sunken in with cracked valleys filling with the overzealous tears that seeped gleefully in their dry depths.
Somber.
Shuffling from his perch of indifference and impassivity. Bones brittled and bent, hollows upon his withered soul.
I see him carrying a bundle of purple lilac sprigs loosely held in his gnarled talons.
Old wind, be gentle with the broken wings that he burgeons upon his back. For I see him, walking, rooted steps that step gingerly upon the leaves that curl around his feet.
Stands there for a time that ages along with him, gazing at the forgotten that he held so dear to his heart. Hoping to fly along gracefully rather than stumbling in the dark; clueless, blind.
Lonesome.
He reaches a hand to stroke the stone with a caress of a lover, lands lightly; so gently.
I look onward.
He does not know that as he lay his tendered flesh on the course jagged breaths of cold marble, a hand reaches out to perch upon his shivering shoulders.
I see him standing, weeping.
Cries of woeful years alone, surviving a battle that has swept too long unto his frail life.
Old Man, look up.
She's there with you.
Watching.
Waiting.
For a day not too long foregone.
I see him, standing, with sobs coming from his dried shriveled lips.
Weeping.
Weeping.
I still look onward.
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