The Widow
He still fills her housecoats on cold nights.
The cat will always be the shadow of his hand.
He dwells on in this home as a recycling
of images that she swirls now with a finger
in the kitchen sink
while cleaning the china plates
he once bought for her.
He still molds his shape
in the stained fabric of his recliner.
His presence decorates and
remodels her un-passing thoughts.
The widow mourns, not at the cemetery,
but from the other side of a double bed.
She acknowledges
new days and their empty dawns
by arranging once shared nick-knacks
by not touching them at all.
She does however
place some sepia moments
in a shoe box he had provided
before the days turned colorless.
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