What’s left after the washing is put away and the dishes are done? What’s left after they all leave without waving goodbye? I close myself in the small room with my past struggles and accomplishments and reach for . . . What’s left after anger and desolation? What’s left is an old woman reaching out to find what’s left when she becomes invisible, unheralded, alone and waiting to find out who she will now become.
The golden sky at dusk Behind barren black branches Seen from inside A warm home. Friends from life times Wearing age’s stories Eyes drenched with memories: A warm home.