Time

My mother's purse

rests on the fireplace. As if she has just

gone out to get the mail. Droplets of

water form on the windowpanes and

unshovelled snow

lies outside. I wish time would

stop long enough to take in the

loss, long enough to make amends,

time to retort, to explain that there has been a mistake, make a

plea,  beg for one small exception. Bargain.  So she could

stay a while longer.