When I talk to you. . . I'm talking to the wall
to photos arranged
across from where you hung the paintings
made by your own two hands.
Set behind the dusty glass of antiquated frames -
the photos tell of family, heritage, and you
in your youthful glory. . . of you with dark lush locks
that framed the face
of a rose in bloom
When I talk to you. . . I'm talking to the birds -
two sweet parakeets
now more than a decade old.
The cage is not as clean as it was when you were in your prime
and all was immaculate!
Now someone else is caring for these birds
which tilt their little heads and inquisitively
peer at me
as if to ask: Are we supposed to understand?
meets my ears.
When I talk to you. . . .I'm talking to the air.
It smells of
antiseptics, and today your room is stifling.
I push you
in your wheelchair
to the garden, where breath of spring awaits us.
I talk to you, but we do not converse.
I look into your eyes grown pale.
Their empty stare
upon the roses. I gently pluck one up
and place it in