The Widow

by a contributor

Vicki Wilson

There’s only her,
and there’s two feet of snow in the path
and the guests are coming.
His shovel with the wooden handle
leans against the door
while she stirs the soup
that will burn
if she stops.
The spoon leans like the shovel.
She is not dressed yet
for company, has not
turned on the lights, so
even evening shadows lean
up walls.
Everything leans.

Vicki Wilson’s poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in Family CircleThe Huffington PostNewsweekWriter’s DigestAnderboThe Southampton Review and more. She is a freelance writer and lives in upstate New York with her husband and son.

Also check out Vicki’s poems Love and The Finger Bullets, and her list of 5 Things in our ongoing contributors’ series.