A Short Conversation Poem by Jack Worthington

She sat there in a chair looking out the picture window
The sun remained high in the sky that afternoon
Sighing, she stared blankly watching the flowers bloom
Resigned to her fate, which was not to be a widow.

I'm going to hell she said, but that was not her call
At least she lived, and cried, and laughed at it all
That's more living than many, too timid and afraid
Gripped by fear then by greed their lives begin to fade.

The sun shone on her grave, but it too shall pass
Everything winds down, a cosmic clock without mass
The picture window is still facing the yard as before
Yet contains no shapes within its frame, no one to adore.

The window stares blankly at the natural world below
Now a fresh canvas, swept clean by fate's cruel blow
It waits for another artist, for the last has passed
Her fate is far from certain, by the creator to be cast.