Full Bloom
the bulb
glowed
by her door
chandelier of yellow shade
much too small to read by
but big enough to see the print
beyond the day
she buried it
no promises of bloom
or a season chair to sit
dark it lay beneath the bed
sleeping ever sound
not even her steps would rouse
nor the vibration of her voice
calling for him
and in the daily dish
and market fare
and Sunday sermons
who, what, where
the bulb but memory
distant as a child
grown and gone
and widowed there
she waited
not for promises of bloom
or a season chair to sit
late of day, long of night
her vase already full
by the door she stood
no sound she made
yet he heard her
calling for him
TL