Abby Lock3

Abby Lock3 May 2017

We stand in the rain
on the last day I will see him
for months and months.
His eyes are fixed on me,
and a tear seeps down his cheek.
He reaches out a calloused hand
and takes mine.
Kids skip past us
up and down the stairs.
They slide down the ramp beside the stairs.
The adults stand inside, behind the glass church doors,
talking, singing, laughing…
But I cry, and my tears spill down my cheeks
and no one can see them,
except for him
standing across from me
in the early September rain.
The flowers are still blooming
amongst the rock décor
beside the concrete stairs.
But I cry,
And the tears roll down my cheeks.
His hair is light blonde and drenched
as it is, I can see his scalp.
His red polo is now maroon,
his jeans are dark already and I cannot tell
that they are soaked.
His wet hand is gripping mine,
“Don’t forget me.”
The single tall oak tree beside the church
sways in the wind.
Its dead brown leaves
break off the branches and twist away
with the gusts of wind.
“Don’t forget me.”
The parking lot has accumulated
puddles of water, a sheen
that reflects the thick grey clouds overhead.
He is staring at me, so I say
“I won’t.”
But somehow both of us know…
We know.
Maybe it’s the wind,
maybe the clouds.
And I cry, and my tears are hidden
by the early September rain.

Abby Lock3 May 2017

Routines

The tall, white building on M-80
fills with people each Sunday morning.
Cars line up in the parking lot
on the white striped asphalt.
The people file into the building
and seat themselves on red cushioned pews.
The ***** and piano play “Onward Christian Soldiers”
dimly from the front corners.
Women’s dresses tangle around their knees
and high heels blister their toes.
Men’s ties choke them
while they sing, but hymnals are held high.
When the children start to fall asleep
parents pinch them.
The highly-starched congregation stares straight ahead,
and the words of the minister
bounce off their heads.

“But be ye doers of the word, and not hearers only,
deceiving your own selves.”

Outside that building
the regal white steeple
reaches up to the sky.
And only the steeple
worships God.

Abby Lock3 May 2017

Gardenwindow

Gardenwindow, looking over the backyard,
Spring and Summer and Fall are lovely
But Winter is hard.
Going outside and
Wandering through my garden,
Down past it to the stream,
Walking along, as if in a dream.
It’s Spring time right now,
The air seems excited.
And there’s buzzing and sniffing,
The male species is fighting.
Continuing to wander out over
This garden, there are
Wonders in Summer,
That the Winter will harden.
Even now the flowers are ebbing away
The trees are all changing,
Things start to decay.
Drifting, tilting, fluttering leaves
Are falling, are falling,
Are falling from tress.
The ending of Fall brings with it this fear
The Winter is coming
So keep all those you hold dear.
The icicles form
And with the snow comes a cost—
My gardenwindow is covered
With layers of frost.
I can no longer see
outside to my garden,
But I can see my reflection,
And it gives me no pardon.
The gardenwindow looks deeper,
Looks into my soul…
It sees parts of me
That were never whole.
It sees all my motives
And it cries out in shame.
The only thing I’ve ever worked for
Is personal gain.

Thanks for reading my first published poem! If you liked this poem, stick around. There will be more to come :)

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