in the front yard
the bikes rest
against the pine tree
all winter the doll
in the pine hay
corner of the yard
the rusted tricycle
overgrown with weeds
only squirrels
play there now
the cabin empty
everything quiet
everything still
the lonely swan drifts on the lake
until the children return
now cold
on the dresser table
my mother's ring
worn thin
from years of giving
