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Stained glass rose - Bobbi Sinha-Morey

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.




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