She can be seen outside the doors
gathering a thicket of flowers.
She’s a watercolor painting,
her gleaming white cotton dress
like fine linen paper in the sun
bleeding red, yellow and purple.
She returns to the dining room
and places flowers in a vase
next to a porcelain teacup
and a solitary goldfish
lazing in a crystal fishbowl.
She stops to take in the photo
hanging on the large empty wall
of a sculpture of St. Michael
guarding the tomb of her lover.
She slowly removes her straw hat,
placing it on an empty chair,
and sits down to a small platter of
browned bread, cured meat and yellow cheese.
Lace curtains billow in the breeze
as she cries like a homeless child.
