letting the green glass fill

I took a green glass

from her house after she had passed.

only 58.
she'd just been born

in some respects,
finding her sea legs on dry
land.

her book ready.
her golf game solid.

all was well.

unloved by few.

but I took the green glass
off the shelf

of what was left over.
her lips
had been on it.

she drank from it's
bottom.

I put it on my sill.
and think of her each time
it rains.

letting it fill.