In her house, forsythia
in a green glass vase, a breeze
through open windows, her
two daughters in a sun-bright room, the lilting
chatter of their play,
stand in her kitchen
Each spring, she waited
for the smell of hyacinths to prove
that spring was real.
On the broad oak table, girls’ clothes rise in one neat pile,
towels in another. Pinks and flowered blues
and socks that should be
She is gone.
The lilac will be blooming soon. I
stack the clean sheets on a chair.
She is gone. She is
A few more tiny patterned shirts and then
I’ll make their lunch.
She is gone. She is gone now
am folding laundry.