Gifts of Emptiness

Two empty glass honey jars on my kitchen sill, second wedding
gift from the woman who guided and inspired, arranged my bridal
blessings shower, left our world too soon. Her last words
to me, “Dreaming of spring and your exuberant gardens!”
I look at her jars as gifts of emptiness and abundance, gathering air,
intangible fragile strings of nothing from which to weave a tapestry of loving.
I look at my echinacea and false indigo, wind anemone, bleeding heart,
butterfly bush, larkspur, tell myself she’s coming back, she’s somewhere
to be found, an unfinished lyric or line of song, the notes are there, just beyond
the page, just past my fingers. I can hear her voice, I can feel his touch,
I can smell the perfume my mother wore, the tobacco my father smoked,
I can see the woman I used to be, if I hold the empty jars and close my eyes.

Carole Greenfield is a writer and teacher living in Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in Red Dancefloor, Gulf Stream Magazine, The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, Arc Poetry Magazine, and Women’s Words: Resolution.

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