I sit on this park bench in the dead of winter.
It's cold outside . . . and cold within.
No beautiful leaves on the trees to shade me from the missing sunshine.
Where are the birds? They've flown south. They are smart--I am not!
Why am I sitting on this park bench in the dead of winter?
I will wait here for spring--when the birds return--when the sun shines again--when I can remove this coat and hat and gloves.I am tired and weary and worn.
My husband's grave stares at me and I am lost in this cold winter of my life.
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