by G.O. Clark
The old poet
sits by the window
in his ancestral farmhouse,
along a New Hampshire
rural highway.
He looks out upon
the tree lush landscape,
rain beads on the window
pane gently blurring
the scene.
His gaze shifts to
the old wooden barn,
once a working one filled
with farm tools, now just
a still life.
It’s enough in his 80’s,
to watch the seasons change,
the birds at their feeders, and
the young speeding by in
their sleek cars.
On the floor above him,
ghosts of his grandparents,
Jane and others whisper among
themselves, waiting for the
family reunion.