At least two years have passed
Since I last sensed his presence.
I trust that he made his way
Onward towards eternal light.
In his wake, I ushered away
The lingering imprint of despair
Along with the cobwebs,
Replacing them with fresh flowers.
I pause from my reading to admire
The arrangement of primrose and
Sundry scraps of ribbon tucked neatly
Into an old pint mason jar near the window.
The air is motionless; my breathing stills
As I watch the tender blossoms tremble
Ever so slightly. Perhaps my eyes deceive.
A shadow flutters in the fading sunlight.
Frisson.
I turn in slow motion towards the antique
Mirror above the mantel, knowing full well
Whose visage awaits in its reflection.
Copyright 2017 Tina Jordan All Rights Reserved
Photo by Roksolana Zasiadko on Unsplash