Haute Dish The Arts & Literature Magazine of Metropolitan State University Icicles
Spring 2005

 


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empty nest
By Nancy Yang

There are no children in this house.
Summer days are gone and winter is the season.

No more little feet pattering throughout;
The many rooms lay silent and pristine.
There are no children in this house.

Sometimes on the holidays, one might see some about;
Flickering lights providing glistening joy.
Summer days are gone and winter is the season.

Breeding one’s genes is not the only route;
Cultivating one’s soul is another way of satisfaction.
There are no children in this house.

The sharpness of memory one might start to doubt;
Which one was the baby in the photograph.
Summer days are gone and winter is the season.

There are no children in this house.


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