Slumped in her green patio rocker, clouds
spew from her Virginia Slim.
It’s like semi-sweet.
Every day she gazes through the blur of smoke
embracing our backyard childish play,
reflecting to when life wasn’t defined by time.

Ailing, her hoarseness becomes stable, her days
numbered by excess fumes impeding every spoken word
until no more is said.
It’s different, the backyard air, it’s
clear,
it’s empty.
Peeled, the paint on her chair exposes the underlying
rotted, black wood.

But we still play.
She still watches over us,
settled in her freshly coated, green patio rocker.