A passion discarded,
guarded,
by a widow lying in wait.
Her body, like a globe of polished ebony,
coruscates in the light that filters through the dreary window;
the crimson hourglass on her breast,
ticking, ticking away,
first minutes, then seconds, then decades of longing.
And still the hands will not come.
By and by she seeks her prey,
snaring in the silken strings of deception,
the flies of autumn,
the wasps of summer,
the spiders of spring.
And still the hands will not come.
Her children cautiously emerge,
from cocoons as grey,
as Heavens in harrowing storms.
And still the hands will not come.
The children grow,
and from their state as white as web,
they fade to charcoal black,
and show their pointed flames.
And at last, the hand appears.
Its fingers grasp the soiled cloth,
neglected for so long,
and smell the scent of tinted earth,
and smile,
and the widow’s watch,
at last,
is complete.