The Widow

The widow waits patiently by the window, pacing back and forth
Into infinity until she falls back upon herself. Time is folded

Neatly, like napkins that line the table of her mind, or her hands
In preparation of prayer. The widow sees what I cannot

See, an open door into an endless room, the sky just a speck
Collecting dust in the distance. Just north of wondering,

The wind breathing softly as it does in the early hours of mourning,
And all the parish stands silent. Whose cross will you bear

When the end unfolds like a map shivering in the wind? The widow sees
What we all see, eventually, the sky stockpiling itself into eternity,

The earth opening up like a tomb, and One ascending and descending
On the precipice of heaven, whose tongue severs the ties between

The goat and the sheep, on whose right and left lie all of humanity,

And on whose back cling the weak and willing to be saved.