A Short Conversation

She sat there in a chair looking out the picture window

The sun remained high in the sky that afternoon

Sighing, she stared blankly watching the flowers bloom

Resigned to her fate, which was not to be a widow.

I'm going to hell she said, but that was not her call

At least she lived, and cried, and laughed at it all

That's more living than many, too timid and afraid

Gripped by fear then by greed their lives begin to fade.

The sun shone on her grave, but it too shall pass

Everything winds down, a cosmic clock without mass

The picture window is still facing the yard as before

Yet contains no shapes within its frame, no one to adore.

The window stares blankly at the natural world below

Now a fresh canvas, swept clean by fate's cruel blow

It waits for another artist, for the last has passed

Her fate is far from certain, by the creator to be cast.