by Jim C. Carpenter
Copyright © 1999
The Robins sing in early spring from leafy branches green,
Within the Maple just outside her window bright and clean.
She sits and works from early morn till evening shadows fall,
Knitting blankets and making things for friends who chance to call.
The snow flakes glare on branches bare when winter winds are bold,
And clothe the Maple just outside in raiment damp and cold.
But still she works from early morn without a hint of gloom,
And spreads a ray of sunshine o'er a cold and darkened room.
Her thoughts are cast upon the past to days that "used to be,"
When, like the Maple just outside, her heart was strong and free.
When love burned deep within her soul, with spirit fresh and young,
Tasted life's sweet vintage wine like nectar on her tongue.
Now sunbeams spill upon the sill of fast decaying wood,
And on the empty space outside where once the Maple stood.
The chair is empty where she sat the room is bleak and bare,
And that she ever lived at all there's no one left to care.
Jim C. Carpenter
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