Solitude
You will laugh and see the world,
you weep, my dear, alone.
The branches of the Ponderosa pine
peek from the corner of his window,
trying to climb over the sky,
all alone in the mist of hazy winter,
giving him a thought of how a lonely
hummingbird will find solace in its arms.
The bee keeps tapping on the glass shield,
probably sensing the sweetness in his
heart,
no matter what people yell about him.
He is alone and waiting for a lover,
weeping in his songs, wondering why he
suffers.
But he knows he weeps alone, and later
he’ll laugh with others.
Better yet, they will laugh with him,
but not in his solitude.
The fake maple leaves hanging from the
lamp dangle over his head
are signs of a perpetual “fall” in his life,
as he falls in spring, summer, and winter,
while the woman next door longs to marry.
He lies still in his solitude,
silent in his loneliness.
He is exhausted from making each day
happen,
tired of his desolation,
which cannot be cured with a happy jingle.
He condenses into his pillow,
like a ball of spring snow on the roads. He weeps, but alone.
