Open Window

She sits at an open window, a gentle breeze is outside. Stained on her cheeks, the tears that she cried. Her hair is all tousled and her lips, fair and white. Tea to her left, red wine to her right. The chair is dusty and in need of repair, The sun is reflected off the gray of her hair. One wall was worn down, but once was pale blue. On that wall is a man, but we never knew who. Every picture was of him in different places and poses. In her hand were a few dead, crushed petals of roses. The rest of the house was pitch black, humid and bleak; The only light was resting on her lily-white cheek. The floor was brand new as if not walked on before, And the rooms were lined with antique decor. No photos of children, friends, or a mother. Just her and her beau. Just them. None other. She lay there relaxed and her legs where aligned She seemed so lady like, proper, refined. And near to her hand, placed on the floor, Was a telegram she never had wanted to share before. "His body was found.” the faded telegram read, "Cause of death: gunshot to the back of the head." The date read, "June 21st, 1964" Died with the thousands from the Vietnam War. Always the widow, never the wife. She lived with this knowledge for all of her life. So, on this day, her battle is done. No breath, no pulse, just the warmth from the sun. Immersed in her sorrow, a soldiers salute Now at the end of her grueling pursuit. She never picked up a gun or threw herself in the fire, But she fought day and night for a simple desire. She battled each day with smiles and a soft "amen" For this glorious day. They are together again.Be honest! Tell me what you think. It means a lot. I put so much heart into this poem, I want your honest opinion. Thank you. Written April 13th, 2002 © on Apr 15 2002 01:18 PM PST   18 • 0 • 8