The candlelight whispered on the walls
of the room; like her, the bed was old
and cold. The quilt was older, stitched
with her nimble fingers in the not-so-roaring thirties,
by the light of an open hearth volcano.
A cut glass perfume bottle by Lalique glimmered.
Filled with her essence, the scent of Guerlain;
it was who she was. It permeated the space
in the cedar shuttered room like words in a book
of love poems, or coloured glass in a Tiffany store.
Looking at the well worn slippers on polished pine.
Feeling the room share her breath as she did
with warm-elderberry-wine kisses on my cheek.
No longer sorrowful of her being alone
I snuffed the candle and sat for a while
In her company.