The Widow

Cockroaches scuttle across the flaking paint,
Tracing out a tale from memory
Of promises she buried an age ago.
Have they been released from Winter's thralldom?
Will they bloom tomorrow?

And if they are destined to rest beneath white sheets;
Will the nightingale's etudes ever drown
In the sonata of the dispirited cats crawling
Across cob-webbed ebony and dusty ivory?

These floors remember the dancing of two lovers.
The million steps i have taken since, made them cry
A million times to make up for each one missed.

There is nothing left for my chilled fingers to hold;
Only a phone that has forgotten to ring
And a black and white photo of a girl, hanging
By a thread as thin as my graying hair.

Even if flowers bloom tomorrow, I will never
See the opened petals nor smell the vialed scents.
It would only be a reverie;
One that I can not touch and should not be remembered
By the quill that scratches against white parchment.