Stacey Dye

I sit in this window
and watch the arrival of spring.
Wisteria cascades from its vines,
honeysuckle tumbles in golden bunches
and I wonder if you know who I am anymore.

Paint peels from the sill.
This tattered cushion a testament
to how long I’ve been ushering
in the seasons here alone.

Everything is new but our conversation.
Seems we only talk about work or weather.
Tell me I’m important
or that you’d slay a dragon for me.