Left over in my memory
was the bare field where
someone had left the husk
of a mobile home, and five feet
away from it a strip of yellow
tape as if there could possibly
be any danger. In the dark windows
a humble lady once lived found
dead in her twilight years, her
life delicate as a glass cobweb
and low immunity system that
seldom let her go outside her
home. I imagine all she ever had
to live on was her telepathy of
hope, starlight she gleaned beauty
from before laying in bed; her
hands small and soft as baby mice.
By day she lived so quietly I hardly
ever heard a word about her though
once someone whispered she'd had
a rich son who'd forgotten about her.
It must've been three months ago
I'd found a lady's slipper lost in
the rain, and I assumed it was hers.
Now she was buried by a few
people who cared close by Rain
Shadow Bay, and I thought to
myself sleep had come softly to
her, a snowflake having melted
so silently into the ground and,
in memory of those who knew
her, a stained glass rose.