The Old House

 

The nasturtiums

have taken over the garden.

The house walls

are choking with ivy,

Stripped, striated,

in need of painting.

For new owners,

the boards go up.

Unneeded objects,

left behind,  are thrown away.

Outside, as I pass by,

the garden is the same,

Where we lived

laughing and drinking,

The end of our lives

until you died.

And I realize,

I still live there.

 

Image by Teresa Alexander-Arab

 

 

3 thoughts on “The Old House

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