BLACK BUTTERFLY

 POETRY, PROSE AND PAINTINGS

Ours

                  Hers was the confident step

                  of some one who knows her place

                  and belongs there.

                  Mine was the diffident step

                  unaccustomed to the echoing floor

                  of a Christian church.

                  Hers was the tall figure

                  surrounded in coutured grey silk

                  knowing each hymn.

                  Mine was the small figure

                  alone in black toward the back

                  fumbling through the book.

                  Hers were the warm eyes

                  drowning in heartfelt tears.

                  Hers were the tears that flowed.

                  Mine were the bright eyes

                  brimming with hot tears

                  but eyes not allowed to cry.

                  Hers was the insider looking out

                  playing her part well

                  she had the right to play it

                  Mine was the outsider looking in

                  watching the proceedings

                  with no part to play.

                  Hers was the name, the children

                  the life together, the love

                  the widowhood.

                  Mine was the book of poems, his other "children"

                  the old cardigan,

                  the gold ear rings.

                  Hers was the solitary grief

                  shared with her memories

                  and her lonely bed.

                  Mine was the solitary grief

                  allowed after all had gone

                  and I could stand alone.