Old Solitude

she’s there

but not precisely there at all

staring at the branches rocking

in a subtle lullaby

there’s a dead butterfly

in her pearl white hair

and a crow watching its carcass

with grief in its eye

her gaze blinks

with brittle numbness

stacked like the auburn bricks

in her hollow garden

a grim sun shifts

uncomfortably above her porch

tiptoeing away

into the foreboding eventide

she sits alone

hours gone with the wind

melting solemnly into her little chair

as her last breath flies