Musing

The house is quiet, no chorus of us,
kids are gone camping, no reason to fuss,
another lone birthday passed into time,
and all that is left is this silly rhyme.

Thought of her hands, just an odd notion,
small and light brown, and soft as a lotion,
curve of her back and silky black hair,
an illness that destroyed my life unfair.

Yet I got two boys, the loves of my life,
it would have helped if I’d had a wife,
but fate sometimes has a different spin,
some hurdles you lose, others you win.

Wonder sometimes how she’s getting on,
while taking a break or hearing a song,
friends say I’m blessed without her around,
but that doesn’t help this silent surround.

longingrhyme

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