Widower Poem by Daniel Y.

Staring at the mirror stars.
As if trying to make out some pointillist image.
Their twinkle is unchanged, yet duller.
The dark is more empty now.
More quiet.

Shadows of memories wish to re-live
behind locked doors.
Up and down the stairs she oscillated
with laundry and dishes,
hovering over the stovetop, occasionally.
Those hand-crafted scallops.
…

The sea-salt smell
sticks around awhile
peeling the walls of my home
rusting the oldsmobile hand-me-down
and suffocating the less-green grass.

The future crumbling
slipping through my hands
but the grains are stuck in my hair.
Those bits of mirror stars.
Flying away from me.