Her Wardrobe

Pretty maids all in a row
Dancing at every swing of the hinge
Mothballs carrying the smell of time
Your mirror reflects only maple now

No more lips to paint and lashes to coat
What once towered over
Now stands shoulder to shoulder

Holding those buttoned dresses
Pearls and velvet
Her collars of lace
Belts and buckles
Zips and ribbons
Lavender and beeswax

When I want her here I’ll open you
And she will hold me, in time
Wrapping me in her scented embrace

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This entry was posted in Grief, Love, Motherhood, poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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