her ironing room

a smudge of sun
is on the window.
the window
that faces
the woods. the window
in the room
where her ironing
board stood, her basket
of clothes.
her photos
still in the envelopes.
just a yellow
smudge of sunlight.
winter sun,
pale as lemon juice,
bright
as fog.
hardly any light at all,
as you stand in
the same room,
pressing a palm
against the pane
to feel how cold
you really are.