From My Front Yard

I’d watch old Tom collect his mail.
His wilting apprehensive legs
crabbing slowly down
then up the hilltop drive,
each step of his
a breath of mine.
From time to time
he’d stop and gaze
transfixed—perhaps at life gone by.
The old wax-flower
no longer visited by bees,
the waning passionfruit
no longer sweet or
tart upon his tongue.
And when he paused
beside his shrunken shrubs
and dying lawn, I wondered,
did he see his life,
his long dead wife,
or very busy children there,
or did Tom simply stop
to catch his breath
as he made me
catch mine.