the house is empty now, without you, Eliza
the flowers bloom in their terracotta pots
the sun reaches its tendrils through the windows
mother waters them, wearing a robe which boasts a feeling she doesn’t feel
she bundles it tighter and shivers
she looks so cold
the only time she smiles is when she gets the letters from you
winter passes and you’re not here, Eliza
the flowers wilt without you ever seeing them bloom