Wings

the wings are still there
propped in a dark corner
of a forgotten room
since childhood

tattered and moth-eaten
dull gray with dust
feathers drooping
beneath Time’s weight

they whisper of a dream
where anything is possible
where I can fly
if only I believe

and possess a child’s courage
to strap on gossamer wings
constructed of faith and innocence
and leap blindly into space

© 2019  KT Workman

 

Roads

a child knows nothing
about the consequences
of the many roads
she will walk in life
until the end
when the last road is chosen
and for better or worse
she arrives at her destination

no more roads left to walk
she then ponders
those fearlessly taken
the ones passed by, unexplored
the hurtful ones
paved with nails and glass
and she realizes that long ago
she lost her way

too late now
she knows, too many times
she picked the wrong roads
always in a hurry
she veered left on a whim
right on a wish
and she has only herself to blame
for this damned dead end

©2019 KT Workman

The Old Woman

The old woman rises at dawn
Cooks breakfast for the old man
As she stirs the bubbling gravy
Turns the sizzling bacon
Her eyes stray to the open window
Where the new-plowed earth waits

Dishes stacked in the sink
She joins the old man
Beneath the cerulean sky
Laying out the rows
Mounding the hills
Dropping in the seeds

As the days grow longer and warmer
The old woman weeds and waters
Tending the green growing plants
With love and care
As if they were her children
Who all have grown and gone

The old woman picks the lettuce first
Along with green onions
She drizzles them with bacon drippings
And while they eat in front of the TV
She and the old man
Talk of long-ago gardens

A passel of barefoot kids
Running up and down the rows
More hindrance than help
So sent off to play
While the young old woman and old man
Do the work

In the height of summer
The old woman picks juicy tomatoes
And the last of the cucumbers
She and the old man
Eat them with a little salt
While watching Wheel of Fortune

The old woman rises at dawn
Cooks breakfast for the old man
As she stirs the plopping oatmeal
Butters the toast
Her eyes stare through the frosty glass
At the barren, snow-covered garden

Arthritis torments the old woman’s joints
Her heart flutters in an unsteady rhythm
Keeping time with a lonely mind
That is muddled with yesterdays
She wonders if she will see another spring
Or if she even wants to

©️2019 KT Workman