They sit in silence
Beauty once succulent
In its fullness, now
Folded into story lines
Black dresses
Mementos to men
Who were never there
Now long gone
Fingers, unadorned
By love’s symbol,
Made inconsequential
By arthritic knuckles
They sit in silence
Love’s sacrament
Sipped in the cup
Of memories
The scent of his
Shaving soap
His sound, when
He spilled his passion
Their aching bodies
Reminisces on
The pain of birthing
Passion’s creation
They sit, knowing
It takes time, and
Silence to age
The lees of love

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