Death Grip

She keeps a death grip
on that sparse bouquet of holy moments
that never fail to bring a smile 

Brisk youthful footfalls advancing across a wooden floor  
A countenance like the sun in the door frame
Glance before outrageous laughter  
Breaking even with convenience store wagers

But time, persistent healer of all wounds
Time, that Thief, pries at her fingers
loosening the hold
she has on those hopeful and petal-less stems.

Their fragrance long staled, now cloyed with rot
Their color unremarkable greyish-green
Crunchy with age, dust with a touch
Clutched yet in a grimy, resistant palm.
Holding on for dear life. 

A silence in the wires
A sliver moon rises over a dry and barren desert
She listens carefully, looks intently, waits
For a message in the spider's web
An alignment of the stars
What god wants her to know


A perfect stillness.
All quiet.
No crickets.  No ticking clock.
The house settles in silence.
And then, as soft as a sigh, but more like a prayer
Breathing in, breathing out.
"No...." she says.