Eric Ashford Poet Free verse

Living Spaces

She died in the kitchen
perched on a three-legged stool.
Her heart flew away
along with all the skills of her hands.
Now between the light and the dark
she cooks the dried fruits of yester-years.

Often, her thoughts take shape,
oft also is the distant music
of Glen Miller overheard
as it warms radio valves
in a long defunct wooden case.

I used to water the tall green ferns
that survived her
I became her curator
and sometimes in my self-talking mind
my words became hers,

while we listened together
to the ghostly echoes
of our shared living-space.

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