I Saw the Elderly Woman this Morning​

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On the 11th of every month,
she gets the flower ready,
the same daffodil he liked.

A day to drive up to the mountains,
clean the grave marker.
Last month, lots of rain,
weeds started their growth;
like many things in life,

birth, death, arrive, leave, no one notices.

Same color, same florist near the station;
Spanish mission revival style,
its survival since 1894 is historic.
The tiles on the roof are from that era.

A small town.
After he left, it gets smaller;
a little corner
in the big house is all she touches.
 

The station in town kept the trains coming.
Hers already left.
The waitress at corner eatery
still remembers her name.
Same route to the highlands,
a world of her own up there,
a teeny bit of Heaven.

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Not a day to hurry,
time is all she has.
When the day is coming to the end;
she always chooses to pass the old station,
look at those old roof tiles,
and reminisces in the old life
all the way to the last century.