A poem
I gathered the faded blooms, their petals turned to rust,
that fell too soon from boughs which bore them.
The coming seasons fail to fill the barren orchard,
its crop now lost to time’s swift reaping.
That silken thread of joyous years, still vivid,
around hands that crafted warmth and comfort.
The hearth fire, cooled to brittle ash
that slips between grasping fingers,
its light and warmth turned to memory.
The hall of mirrors stands now dark, reflections dimmed
that once illuminated bonds of kinship.
The empty frames echo mournful sighs
on shrouded walls where shadows linger.