The Window Behind Her

She sits where the shadows softly creep,

A frail old frame in a wheelchair deep.

The window glows with the afternoon sun,

But she faces away—her world undone.

Her hands are folded, her gaze is still,

Eyes fixed on a corner, silent, until

A flicker of thought stirs faint and small,

Then vanishes quick, like it never was at all.

The glass behind her holds sky and tree,

A bird in flight she will never see.

Seasons have turned, leaves green to gold,

But her mind is lost in a place grown cold.

No laughter, no voices to break the spell,

Just the quiet hum of a sterile shell.

The clock hands move though she cannot know,

That time still flows where memories don’t go.

Sometimes her lips shape words unheard,

Fragments of life now broken, slurred.

A name? A place? A song long past?

Each one appearing, then gone too fast.

The room holds echoes of lives she knew,

But now it’s empty, save her and a few

Fading balloons from a birthday missed,

Colors dulled like the years she kissed.

She does not turn to the light behind,

Nor notice the day or its gentle shine.

The world is there—but not for her—

She’s adrift, alone, where the lost things stir.