Entombed

the face graved in stone
once felt the rain as
yours does now, fed the
children, watered the
garden, watched the rising
and setting
of the sun, counted the
mysteries on her fingers,
wondered at the future,
twisted the strands of
gold together until she
felt their strength, drew them
through the fabric, the
domestic arts of adornment
hers, even to the last

waited for her husband to
return from the war,
burnt meals,
and still swept the floor in the
face of death, pestilence,
and despair