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Slowly, Silently, Diminishing
May 26, 2011
Television mumbles,
lights glowing fuzz,
rain paints with fluid sparkle
on the window.
Flocks of automobiles buzz,
muted by distance
and walls
Your grandmother is in the sitting room
with you.
She is getting lost;
not the
woman
you used to play cards with;
watch incense burn.
You'd always wonder when
it would crumble down
to the stud.
She speaks nonsense, your grandma.
And you always think,
To who?
Perhaps we'll never know.
Perhaps she's listening, too;
listening to those nostalgic
ash crumbles
hit the wooden tray,
television mumbles.
© Hannah B., Princeton, IL
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