Laundry: A Poem

Two years gone and still your hand
Lifts over the notes we sang to ease you
Home. Winter, and the dark had fallen

Through. Your future then
Was the tricking back
Past time. The smell of laundry
Hung to dry. The strand
of pearls you dared to buy.
The day your mother

Died. Your future was your sight,
Which had gone before you,
And your words,
Eclipsed now, too,
And your hand lifting over the notes we sang,
As if we might go with you, touched.

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