The light is all dust here
cold water spilling alive
through knuckly hands
finding its own way always
certain of getting where it belongs.
She dries her chilled hands
the years hang on them like dust
filling the stale yellow basement
sunlight. A widow’s laundry.
Dryness of the air films puffed eyes
lonely garments drip stiffening on the wall-strung line.
Drops alight from wet clothes
to the floor inching to the basement drain
finding a new place when another has nothing left.
She watches and listens.
You too are mostly water
whispered in tiny blebs and plops
it is best when the time comes to leave your life.