She picked up his bones
scattered in the yard,
and took them into the house.
Her workshop was cluttered;
so she cleaned off a spot, and
orderly stacked them up.
Days went by, then weeks,
and finally years. The bones
collected dust like mementos.
One day, stumped, she looked
up from her work, and saw
the neatly stacked dry bones.
She laughed as she remembered
him, then went to work:
drilling, weaving, balancing.
She sang as she worked, happy
at last to be creating so freely
from his humble remains.
Finished, she took what she had
made from him, and hung
it from an old oak tree.
It danced a hollow dance,
clattering as the bones clacked
together with every wind.
In the evenings she would sit,
and sip a glass of wine, happier
than she had ever been with him.
(August 7, 2018)
