Sun dusts in
Her white dress is pressed flat
and held forever empty beneath cool plastic.
The desk where she wrote
sits pristine, devoid.
Her home is broken.
Robbed of creaking floorboards
and smoke-stained ceilings,
stripped of drafty, forgiving windows
who once let in antique exhalations of winter.
Gutted so it speaks no more,
I tour an unburied skeleton.