The old wicker couch with its faded cushions, peeling paint
for years has been there in the shade of the ancient tree
and I watch the leaves drift down upon it,
like teardrops slowly and gently falling.
Some of them dance in the breeze like butterflies
and find their way through the half-open door,
settling onto the floor as if taking up residence,
in a vacant and empty house and I watch...
listening to the echo of "he's gone"
stretching across the miles.