Here’s a new poem contributed by the writer, Molly Rosenberg.
Twenty-four years, time passes, cobwebs gather,
Dust settles into crevices and cracks so tiny
They are imperceptible to the naked eye.
I hear the echoes of laughter, the tears of misery
The rustle of paper long since discarded
From beribboned gifts.
I hear the eager, excited footsteps on the path
And then retreating as the door is closed
For that one last time. . . gone for ever.
Twenty-four years, time passes,
The garden wraps itself around the house,
The wheels on once shiny Birthday bikes no longer spin.
The moss has overtaken the goal mouth,
The balls – punctured – lie in undergrowth
So thick it appears to have devoured
All formality of neat lines and ordered beds.
I see a muddied toy soldier embedded in the earth,
Missing the soft skin that once drilled him
Through the forests of the imagination. . . gone for ever.