She sits in the sunshine of the dream she built about her,
wanting and waiting for something.
The house was built with strong arms
that held her through the night.
The garden she sowed each year bloomed still,
as her children each moment became older.
The quilt on their bed lay perfectly neat
in a tiny room that smelt of spring through winters.
She stares out the window –
she kisses her children to sleep and goes to lay alone,
restless in her loneliness –
Loss tugging at the seams she so carefully stitched,
Clutching the seeds she so carefully buried,
Rattling against the house that had held her dreams,
all a-creaking and a-crying and a-lone.
Yet, the house infused with his spirit
refuses to break and crush her;
The patchwork that covered their bodies
holds her warm and close;
The ground that holds his body
knows the seeds of her hands in the dirt.
The wood of his coffin strengthens the wood of the house,
His bones make butttons to keep the seems together,
And his ashes in the ground give her seeds a push,
reaching for the light,
Waiting for dark and death and company once again.
But urging her to continue on, because life needed completion,
and the World only held him closer in embrace.
