The wooden swing is still out there,

just where it use to be,

but it has been stilled.

And the door is opened

and the knob still creaks

and the sink still leaks

but nobody’s home.

Like my heart,

closed to all now,

hollow and locked tight

why did you leave?

The weeds still grow,

but they refuse to get taller than they’ve ever been

mocking me, reminding me,

of what I use to see.

What I used to see,

looking out that window.

Springtime flowers, you and her,

just rocking on the swing.

The pond,

the joy we use to have

the waters splashing

and the sun resting lightly above

now,

the pond is still there,

but now it’s choked by waterlilies

and the water sits there, undisturbed and laid to rest.

And everything’s changed,

and my heart is closed,

just like my home.