THE WIDOWER

The lilac tree
Has lost its bloom
From a steamy window
In a lonely room
Old eyes scan
The gardens death
In Winters gloom
No plan to set.

The ticking clock
The watching walls
Quiet photographs
Empty halls
Distant traffic
Slides on by
Another day
Yet to cry.

Memories now
Like books on shelf
Lined and rigid
No recompense
Time it drains
Sand in glass
Alone again
Hours pass.