Making their quilt with small remnants of silk,
The Widow Ladies piece each one to piece,
There is no time for dwelling on spilled milk,
Putting in practice everything they preach,
Gathering at the workbench for their tea,
Turning the subject to more pressing things,
Like needlepoint, like fine embroidery.
They all have long laid down their wedding rings,
No longer in black clothing or black lace,
No longer, though they did not disregard
The etiquette, which was performed with grace,
Acknowledging every sympathy card,
Condolences received. But now, the past
Is not belabored, with so much to do,
And occupied now, with the things that last,
They share what each other has suffered through.
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