When the birds fly home today, she’ll be gone.

Ancient, decrepit; arguable that the end came a long,

Long time ago.

Not (you say) that it makes it any easier.

Imagine a soul rolled and stretched and rolled and stretched

Until it was as thin as dental floss.

The length of a life, measured out

In neat intervals . . . here was her first birthday, here was her first love.

You could say that Fate is a seamstress; weaving, forming,

Clipping,

Stopping.

Spools of thin life threads stacked on her shelves.

Sometimes they tangle with others,

Leading through galaxies of yes’s and no’s

And maybes,

To hellos, goodbyes, friendships, and feuds,

Always snaking through the fingers of the mortally desperate.

But for her (unforgotten) that rope

Starts to peel away.

Leaving only skin and bones,

Skin and bones.

A final farewell kissed away by those skeletal lips,

(Sweet air finding new life in the lungs of the living)

At last: Tears fall down on the body lying

So still, so still,

So cold.