(Behind their home, reflecting today.)

In Back, Here

Standing in back, here.
Behind their home.
Reflecting today,
on then.
And, them.

First, when, just a house,
inside, impotent and sterile.
She made it a home,
a life hub, full, familial;
connecting hearts beating,
and souls imperishable.
Her warmth, embracing
through the years long.

With her inevitable passing,
this home, just a house again.
Forlornly empty throughout.

The love she bared and shared;
still there but fading quicker,
daily, with late day shadows
creeping sooner somehow.
And cold and dark invades
though the sun graces.

Outside, red oaks, silver maples,
protective playgrounds of old.
Sun rays slip-dance past leaves
not yet fallen and undignified,
settling unaffectedly on
cold, forgotten, rusty remnants
of yesterday’s tools … his tools.
As, he, a master of know-how
and God’s wood.

She and he are gone,
separately,
but, now together again.
Belonging to the ages.

Mom and dad’s home.
Our home.
Reflecting today,
under a changing sky.
Standing in back, here.

In Back, Here©
Rob Spina