Poem From "legende" By Wieniawski

Winds batter the dusty house, can you hear the creaks, moans, the wrinkles? his hands, glide up and down the worn wood of the aged rocking chair this place is the essence of antiquity; i feel ill-at-ease his dull eyes search for something, anything to pull him into the past the chair groans: once, twice, a third time i wait, impatient to depart. he offers me a bowl of blueberries politely, i refuse ….and then, finally he sees it: that one, single object which lights the spark in his lifeless eyes, and which captivates him he beings to speak…. softly at first, then louder, crescendoing in volume i can see him reliving his worn-out memories, handling each with care, like a prized item or an old, trusted friend i watch him ramble and reminisce about so many things the war, the shine of her hair, the laughter of the children he even tells me about the blueberry bush he planted over her grave i listen, and listen hours later he is jolted out of his reverie… the jingling of my cell phone i see the sparkle dim the laugh lines fade ….he slips away into nothingness once, twice, a third time the rocking chair groans i creep away down the lane and leave him still sitting there a solitary figure surrounded by ghosts and wisps of things that once were they swirl around him, caressing his wrinkled brow with cool fingers at home i open my refrigerator and i eat blueberries they stain my clothes, and i try to get them out but they cannot, and will not leave.