She touches,
As if tender and dear,
The frame of an old swing set
rusted over the years.
The small rock-strewn garden,
Now turned to weed,
Still bears grapevines
Planted from seed.
The path round the back
Remains a worn track.
She closes her eyes,
It’s almost the same-
A little girl,
Swing sets,
Rag-dolls and
“Pony games.”
She gingerly finds her way
Up the back stairs,
Across the rotted porch,
She stops,
Holds,
Waits and stares.
The door remains
Only by chance-
A lone rusted hinge
Has held against
The years and the onslaught
Of gulf-shore winds.
It remains now,
Her only barrier
From “returning back again.”
A chill runs through her veins,
Through all these years,
Through all these abandon times,
Still remains,
Back to a time of hurricanes.
She steps across the boundary
To past lives-
continued
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