he reminded me of a tree
feet rooted in the soil
gaze straining to the distant hills
that strained towards the sky.
she lived inside the house
inside her head
travelled instead in a chariot
made from dreams.
sometimes he brought her gifts
a bundle of beans
a strawberry on a plate
she would wait alone in her head
as she gazed at the dead summer fire.
at times like this she could pull herself
back to the front
confront his world
eat his offerings knowing that
his mind was on lower things.
trapped in the vortex of their worlds
in a mutual gravitational pull
proving gravity wins every time
over give and take.
after the funeral
she dragged her chair
into the garden with the weeds
sitting alone and sipping her tea
crosswords abandoned on her knee.
she hasn’t much to say these days
her eyes gaze outwards now and yet
i notice that her chair is set
back towards the house.
the question is
how does the moon revolve
after the world is gone.
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