Poems
by Diane Webster
Why Alone
The tattletale tree
points across
the meadow
at the forest
lined up
in defiance
of the accusation.
The tattletale tree
wonders why
it stands
alone.
Inside The Box
Step inside the luminous box
of the windows shadow.
Sunny, warm until
sundial time moves
the shadow across the wall
narrower, constricting,
smothering darkness
into a corner not turned
gone.
Rusty Chains
Pile of chains discarded
like the hunted deer
shot, gutted
where it lies.
Mass of once-useful
organs linking life
now rusty handholds
awaiting disintegration,
separation by oxidation.
Dry Leaves
Autumn filigree
abandoned
on the ground;
a layer of leaves
disintegrates
into skeletons
cremated by touch.
Of Ruins
Old, abandoned
stone house
tumbles back
into disorder
as moss attaches
to the texture
to soften the blow
of ruins witnessed
through the open door
long gone
into the ground.
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