Old Women

3/9    

An old woman sits
in the very last pew
praying the rosary.
The beads and her faith slip
between her fingers,
decades and mysteries
hanging on a string.

The ghost of yesterday's incense
still hovers in the air
like the aftershave she still smells
on her late husband's shirts.

Her prayers rise to the vaulted ceiling
and flutter there like bats.
How much higher they go
she is not sure, but still she rolls
the beads between her fingers,
 and proclaims the mysteries.

The mysteries joyful, sorrowful,
glorious, and luminous
are held in her hands and proclaimed,
but the real mystery
held in her heart,
not her hands,
is why he is gone,
and she is still here.