The confusing aspects

The garden’s not been weeded
something she did
when time allowed,
the washing line was full
of sheets that billowed
in the wind
one time
when time allowed
and here I sit
where I always did
doing nothing.

Time allows me this
as time took her
and the things I miss.

It’s not the same here
not the same,
no
her
no
calling
calling out my name
not the same
it’s not the same.

And every day
another night to carry forth
into another day
and which way should
I go?

The garden’s not been weeded
something she did
something
I was used to seeing

going over time that’s running
racing through my mind,
it’s not the same here
not the same
I imagine sometimes
hearing her
calling out my name
but
it’s not the same as
it used to be.

© 2017, John Smallshaw.