Scenes of yester-year

She sits in her solemnity,
On a wooden bench that has held the burden of a thousand souls;
She bows her head slightly,
Watching other residents meandering in zombie-like strolls.

The squirrels frolic at her feet,
And she wonders at their freedom;
Is the critter the first or a thousand generations since her arrival here,
And she fears the battle with dementia, she's about to succumb.

Everyone from her glory days are dead,
They are all in their graves; the ones that she once held dear;
And the past only exists in the glimmering pools of her eyes...
And they are scenes of yester-year.