I am, all that exists is: this window.
Lost faces empty, a blur of pity.
Know this creaking frame of wood as my bones;
Glass besmeared by unknown fingers, like me.
The curtains are my mother’s love: heavy.
I think the birds are my children’s lost calls.
I love the bare garden through the glass, he
Is my husband, soon too I will be the soil.
They visit sometimes, shadows forgotten,
Block my dear window to keen their grief.
They want the worms from my skull, cold rotten.
They are birds, sing lullabies lost, then leave.
Memories threaten to shatter everything.
The birds want me always singing.