the long green shadows

she's gone now, or at least

i assume

that she's 

passed on, no cards or notes

have crossed

the mail

in years.

but i understand her more now,

now that i'm

the age

she was when we

first met thirty years ago.

her way

of sitting still and listening

to every word

i said.

i see the gentleness

in how

she stirred

her tea,

and carried in the tray

of cookies

she made.

there was no hurry

about her.

i can see her books in long

green shadows

of her living room.

lined on the shelves.

the fireplace

unused.

the oil painting above

of someone

she knew, someone she

once loved,

but never spoke of.

often i check the mailbox,

in hoping

that i'm wrong.