In the bedroom,
I notice you’ve stacked
my things into piles,
clusters of everyday items:
 
my grandmother’s costume beads,
spare reading glasses,
prescription bottles
 
that have long expired.
 
It is getting dark.
Through the window,
the moon shades in its marble.
 
And another woman
appears in my mirror,
this one too heavy,
the other, too old, to be me.
 
Now, I run my fingers
over a layer of dust on the tabletop
where, in my absence,
 
you’ve gathered my poems,
early drafts without
beginnings or endings,
 
while in the backyard,
the cherry blossoms bloom,
and black-capped chickadees
sate at the feeder,
 
the garden still waiting
for whatever might come.