MUSED Literary Magazine.
Poetry

She Sits

James Nichols

Seldom do I see her anymore.
She´s left behind traces,
nothing more,
of good graces, once or twice.
Now she sits in silence
calling Christ.

She doesn´t know the seasons,
doesn´t sense the tilt.
Whatever reasons
once heartfelt,
now autumn´s unscented
so she sits
disoriented.

I prayed she´d remember
tiny bits of days
in November´s
dying rays, near the end.
At least she sits
in its wind.