Blanca’s Chair

The smell of
Jasmine swirled
About the house

A jar has
Opened, holding
What’s been held
Inside for seasons

The green still
Grows from

And the stairs
Are seasons as
William climbs
Each one

His back bent
Stretching with
Memories of his
Life, his wife

He carries his life
On his back, its
Curvature conforming
To both comfort and

His mind fretting
On the details that
He has kept account
Of in his own way

And dreams cannot
Be kept buried
For long

And he enters
His home and the
Scent of jasmine
Enters his pores

And his eyes
Make their way
To the corner

Eyes that are
Alive with things
That have fermented
Over time

Eyes whose
Sharpness is
Keen to the sun

In the corner it
Sits, brown and
Wrinkled in its

And with moist
Eyes and the
Smell of jasmine
Kicking up all over

William cried

That was

(C) 2016 Tony Robles.


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