His windows have turned to mirrors
and he can't hear us.
He walks in his forest of barren trees,
alone,
and absorbs their fruitlessness.
The season will change and
he will stroll back to see us;
Expecting big welcomes at the door.
but this time only the
old conversations will greet him,
Still scattered on the floor
just as they were when he left--
Unfinished.
