Ode to a Young Widower

Ode to a Young Widower

The precedent of mourning jostles me

like the apostles with the message of the

beginning of the draining of the sea.

Forty nights of depression it will tear

from impressions on the chestnut pillow’s

still unwashed case; her scent my Cross to bear.

It was midwinter’s tale of driving snow

arriving early on the way from work

which precipitated these days of woe.

My faulty memory can only find

lonely thoughts of her physical being

as empty on the roadways of my mind.

A fateful night, doorbell ringing, while

singing with Shiraz in hand to

anxiously greet by the door with a smile.

I open the door and am surprised yet

surmise by their faces I should cradle

the phone quickly as their eyes briefly met.

“…sorry…inform…accident…please go to…”

“No!” They took me to the morgue to see her

identity, to prove it was true. 

That night’s three days passed; the snow memory,

though I’m left to wonder, “Where is her soul

watching from; so much still ahead of me?”