Until the Last Ember of the Sun

*Written for day 7 of the PAD challenge, prompt "Until (blank)."

until the last ember of the sun
falls through the firmament, a
small beacon in all that black,

she will wait, in her shift, counting
the leaves as they grow, finely-veined,
semi-transparent, on the tree

that brushes her windowpane with an
errant branch, a tapping finger, as
if to say, yes, you are still here

in spite of all the contradictions,
served up cold, on a plate, like
last night's dinner

smiling, all the while, at the
passing scene (how can she not?)
untangling the knots the wind wove

in her hair, counting the ants as
they make their hoardings for
winter, her heart's larder already full

of apples, sweets, preserves, all there
for the tasting