He’s looking — he should
be listening. The memories
are in the whispers
of the dry leaves not
yet ready to fall.
This tree might have
shaded his mother
all those years ago.
The house he came to see, gone,
enshrouded in the dead beige brick
of the local funeral parlor.
Disappointment in his eyes,
but listen. Those leaves, today
they are still alive.
I’ve been in a long dry spell, not really writing much of anything. This poem was inspired by my husband’s journey to view the home in Wolf Point, MT where his mother had spent part of her childhood.
the raven's eye 
This is a splendid poem, Barbara. >
Thanks, Misky. I am so happy to be writing again.
I’m glad to be reading it again!
This is so magnificent, Barbara, so touching on many levels, and the language just sings:
“Disappointment in his eyes,
but listen. Those leaves, today
they are still alive.”
which leads directly back to the beginning:
“He’s looking — he should
be listening. ”
Misky is right. Simply splendid, in structure, in word choice, in rhythm. And if this is what you’re going to come back with from those slower patches, then I say, they are perhaps not so awful after all, regardless of how they feel.