The Veranda

This body made of time
is ticking away in silence.
An occasional knocking
of the pipes lets me know
I am still here.

This house of shelter
cradles me in coarse
cloth of remorse.
I would remove the
older garments but
somehow I need
them as a reminder.

This street of surrender
is empty, all the
children grown and gone.
No pushcarts or wagons
here to mar the moment.

A veranda spilling over
with fragrance is beckoning
while I watch the new
arise from the ashes of the old.
One day you will see me there
as if I never knew a thing.

Vicki Woodyard

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