Whispered Wanderings

Lost and broken, she wanders the night:
down gloomful, somber streets of her past,
no longer looking for anything here;
for nothing worth finding, remains.

Then sits under a long-broken street lamp,
on a splintered old park bench
(once-red paint faded to dismal gray)
Eyes closed, to travel inner landscapes now;

Nothing left for her in this neighborhood.
Silent, silvery spectrals of what had been
leave their trails between lamp and bench;
unseen, but deeply felt. She knows each name;

Each memory engraved into her soul.
She allows the tears to come at last,
healing for the thirsty ground below;
life-giving to the seeds she plants.

klm
3/16/24