Despair

BY DR. AGONSON

Unloved, the spinster sits within the window’s light,
some half forgotten work beside her stool,
and from that empty, barren room she trains her sight
upon a dying garden and a pool.
No word is on her lips, nor moves her tongue in speech;
it’s but her trembling chin which we see move.
Though summer’s here, the fruitless garden’s far from reach,
and there’s no voice to scorn nor to approve.
Transfixed within that scanty portal’s fading beam
—around her floats the dust—all things are dust—
her breath escapes her in one silent, mournful scream
which gives no birth to sound, nor love, nor lust.
She’s hurt by memories, by days of school long past,
those sweet and broken promises inured
her to this dreadful want and hopeless life, and passed
this life some unmarked death—promise assured.
In this cruel life she’d not recall another joy
save for what made her stomach turn inside
to here recount. The garden’s dead, and there’s no koi
within the pool—despair none can abide.