They nailed the 'SOLD' sign in her yard

They nailed the 'SOLD' sign in her yard,

a white plank, stark, un-card.

Her house sits quiet, all shut tight,

no porch light on, no morning light

from inside.

She grew petunias, purple, bright,

every summer, left and right

of the front door. Now the boxes wait,

dry earth, a forgotten state.

I always meant to nod or wave,

a small hello, a chance to save

a moment from the passing blur.

But she is gone, and I am here,

and only silence fills the air

where purple used to be, over there.