When I Talk To You
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?
Silence meets my ears.
When I talk to you, I'm talking to the air.
Today it smells of antiseptics, and your room is stifling.
I push you in your wheelchair to your 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 seems fixed upon the roses.
I gently pluck one up
and place it in your thinning snow white hair
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