WHERE ARE THE CHILDREN?
The sky was cruel and churning.
The wind was much more than a breeze.
The windows rattled and the furnace hummed;
an old man stood fixing tea.
He stood at the glass between
himself and the outside
and stared at the empty swing on the tree
once occupied by her joyous smile
and ankles kicking freely.
He etched a heart in Jack Frost’s design
and became lost in his reverie
of how many times he’d watch her
while preparing tea and something to eat.
A splash of salted sea
dropped off the cliff of his cheek,
then a flood of tears came
and his shoulders began to quake.
The hot drink spilled over his leathery hands
as if to scald the memories
of all the years and all the days,
the hardships and heartfelt happiness,
They worked so hard to have.
Dear Lord, Why?
Why did you have to take her,
she was all I had.
Where are the children to embody her features?
No descendants to hold his hand.
But he knew full well he could have been,
yet he decided to not be a dad.
© L. P. Penner, 2015