My life was not to be, it stopped, astonished, I hold to the memory as you would a child upon your lap, I grow old without growing. I most frequently return the grave. The grave will not give up my child. I am an old woman with nothing left but memories.
I have no home to go back too, no one wants me to visit, aunts, uncles all dead. No longer does anyone whisper of them. I wish the people of my youth were gathered in one place. Nevertheless, it was not to be, not for me, no mother, no father, their all in the graveyard.
The child in me is ready to go home, to change, and to stand by the road crying out “I am home”. I stand on the stump of my childhood. Life is still lost. The branches of my tree are barren, only air fills that space. The world that was my world.
I am all burned out, a flash in a century, now ash. No one notices me here on the stump by the road, the sap runs out of the trees; I too will soon do the slow dance toward my permanent home.