Sitting alone at a table for four,
She thinks back on the past,
Voices once raised in play,
Now there is silence instead.
Rose grow out in the garden so pretty,
Not trampled by small little feet,
Cactus on the window sill now,
Will not hurt tiny exploring hands.
She thinks on her travels,
All through the lands,
All the places to see,
And things to be done.
Her collections which stand,
Without danger of falling,
No tiny tots pushing and pulling.
No trampling feet on tiny pieces.
The phone rings, a number she knows,
Back in time she goes,
To when the house rang with noise,
Nothing like the voices of babies,
To warm the heart of a woman.
The conversation ends,
Back to the loneliness.
A total imbroglio,
Trying hard not to be bitter,
All alone with her collection,
and memories of different days.

Laura R
1-18-03