A poem by me

Lonely Things

I
Its pillars collapsed; a weathered cabin sags
beside a grassy trail. Cobwebs lace each window,
dim reflections kill the sparkle of the sun’s rays,

The door hangs ajar, expecting no one.
No one leaves. Ivy hugs each timber on the walls,
holding rotting wood together.

Unsafe railings on the porch trellis wild roses.
Pink buds become blood blooms, attached to sturdy stalks
with thorns and gray-green leaves.


II
Eyes shrouded with reality,
Ellie wraps her body in his old black sweater,
a benign shield against the cool emptiness,

She dozes in her chair. She dreams.

A ballroom filled with swirling skirts, pink chiffon,
dancing slippers, amid manly dark blue suits.
At seventeen, she chooses him, blue eyes, a gentle smile.

She takes the shy boy’s hand and leads him
with her heart through decades of delightful days
and years of deep devotion.

As sunset closes evening’s door, a chill befalls the room.
Ellie lights a lamp, lingers, her fingers touch the strings of his guitar.
The warmth of him surrounds her like a well-worn blanket. 

His distant voice comes, singing, “I need you at the
dimming of the day.”

                            By Glenda Council Beall