The storm window to her room,
Fused shut by time and inactivity,
Bears witness to all,
Especially fall's nose-dive
Into winter.

Bubbles of condensation gather
In cold clusters at a leaking corner,
Seeking the warmth within;

And the silver radiator blows her top
Like a chain-smoking choo-choo train,
An hourly refrain  
Of dreams interrupted;

And the mirrors weep,
In this lonely room
Where my mother slept
For 40 years;

And prayed with a white cotton sheet
Over her head,
A nightly soliloquy
For the Gentle One.

This room has seen
And heard it all:
From the supple nakedness of youth
And the  physical betrayal of age
To the immutable sounds of lust, love, laughter,
Screaming siblings
And coo-ing babies;

This room knows
The cycle of seasons
And life only too well;

But it'll never tell...

Its solitary window
To the world
Is fused shut...

As the mirrors weep,
And my mother sleeps
in eternity.

~ P (#WeepingMirrors)
(11/14/2013)