Has she ever left this house
where no matter what season
no flowers seem to grow
and thoughts don’t show in laughter, not ever.
Did she once leave this place,
this street? This room?
If so, not in this century.
She has been there for always.
Framed behind her window glass
the widow’s face is showing. She stares,
portrayed in stillness she is watching
how slowly the snow is covering the street
in glistening smiles all over her buried memories,
and she smiles too, or so it seems,
overlooking other winters with piles
of corpses that she can’t forget.
Her image stays untouched, is centered
in the red bricks of the house
that her father built
over a hundred years ago
and where her mother died
after her seventh child was born
and where she herself cried, mourned
silently over losing both her husbands.
The street is white now
and her hair is grey now.
She’s always there. Maybe she died
and told no one that she had done so
and there was no one else to tell about it,
so no one knows.
She could always keep
a secret very well.
Today is my birthday and I was thinking about aging 🙂 And last year a woman was found who had been lying dead in her house for ten years, that had something to do with this poem too 🙂