(NaPoWriMo Day#27)
Drops of water drip from a leaking gutter
To a newly soiled flower bed ten feet below.
In a rocking chair he watches the destruction.
Dirt once combed over perfectly by hand
Lovingly smoothed by crooked wrinkled fingers
Has given way to a small but growing hole.
Memory stolen by old age and senility
Does not remind him that this had happened twice before.
Angry at the rain and his forgetfulness
He goes inside to cry for her once more.
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