The Widow

The WidowThe Widow

By Steve Griffin


She is married to a ghost, her vows inviolate.

Her late husband, she won’t consider late.

In fact, he seems much more himself,

interred so nicely on a shelf.

Her devotion does not lack,

because he cannot answer back.

His calm demeanor satisfies,

far more than would be lovers’ cries.

She feels no longing for love’s fires.

Selected memories fulfill her pale desires.



She was so strange and rare,

her worth lacked all compare.

It filled our hearts with fear,

since all that seemed so clear,

was causing us confusion.

Was everything we loved, just an illusion?

Her tears she was too proud to show,

her laughter too small for us to know.

The casual manner of her looks,

the constant armload of her books,

the faroff gaze in her dark eyes,

the poignant music of her sighs,

we never valued them as special.

We were all too superficial.

Her diffidence we called hostility.

Her self sufficiency, goaded our conformity.

When she left, we admitted to no shame.

Not one of us accepted any blame.

But now, I wish I could traverse the years,

and hold her close, and share our tears,

and let her finally know,

I knew the value of her soul.    

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