Its Not Fair

I’m growing old and have no say.. My breasts that once comforted- now droop. Its nice that you are interested in my past, But do you care about my future?. The view from my window is limited, I can see a small corner of the yard. The rose there is dying of neglect, I’m concerned about its future. Not so long ago I ran in the fields, And drank from the stream of life. Now these four walls are my prison… My future rests in the hands of others. Is it too much to ask to smell fresh cut grass? Or feel the breeze and a raindrop on my hand? Do the quail still run up the bank behind the house? I want to go home. For my auntie who lived in a nursing home.