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.
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