Saturday, April 7, 2012
image from tracey grumbach
Betty and Joe were together
for 63 years, he a dashing sailor
home from the war, her a Florida lass,
sun-kissed and sparkling.
He brought her home to Washington State,
to live on the family dairy farm,
100 acres of lush Buckley plateau;
the only place Joe ever lived.
They had this wide covered porch
that faced southeast, and every morning
they sat in their puncheon thrones,
drinking black coffee and holding hands,
watching the sun rise over Mt. Rainier,
looming large over their pastures.
Joe passed on first, when he was 85,
succumbing to a respiratory problem,
as if the rains finally got their revenge
when pneumonia stole his last breath.
Betty hung on for another year,
but her heart wasn’t in it, this droll life
without Joe, the empty bed,
the empty table, the empty hands.
One morning she just decided not to rise,
nestled alone in their conjugal blankets,
hearing him call to her softly above
the cowbird’s cluck, as dawn
readied itself to touch their old chairs.
Their son ran the place now, an absentee farmer,
and every day that he walked by the empty house,
he noticed that the white and green chairs
were still touching each other.
Posted over on dVerse Poets-Poetics
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