Ghosts fly down the chimney, their crying loud and shrill.
His desk, once overflowing now lets its papers roam the halls.
The rocking chair he made last year will stay forever still.
The house is quiet.
He is leaving.
The path to the forest has disappeared. Vines and bushes taking back what is theirs.
Fruit from the trees is sour, they disapprove of his absence.
His pride and joy the vegetable patch turns to seed without his careful attention.
The garden is thick with resentment.
He has left.
Every night the Tui's chirp indignantly. No longer does he come to feed them.
Deer invite themselves to graze on the grass that keeps on growing. No more must they fear his bullets.
And the river runs. As fast as her banks will allow. Hair tangling in the reeds, eyes tired from searching, she is to slow to catch him.
He is missed.
Sarah Nicole
This is a beautiful poem, imaginative and evocative. It leaves with the mysteries: who is he and what happened?
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