Standing in the yard, raking again.
Fall. Falling down. Fallen away.
A fallen woman? Hardly,
yet, this job is mine alone,
like waking to find clothes
scattered around the empty bed.
He’s long gone, chasing spring.
Trees stand naked, unashamed,
stripped bare before winter.
Even as I am bundled, bundling leaves,
our fallen life-giving, lifeless garments
into a black plastic bag.


The Widow’s Walk was nineteen steps, where
I watched to see if the iron in my blood
was dense enough to turn your compass
and bring you home.

Nineteen steps,
the distance from the door to my bed
in the empty apartment where I practice
another sort of waiting.

Red thread I use to sew on buttons
binds across centuries as well as seas,
because distance is as many dimensions
as loneliness.

I gripped the wooden railing as I grip the sheets,
hoping to spy your sails or hear my cellphone ring.

Lisa Wence Connors retired from the United States Army. After successfully raising a daughter, she now enjoys life as a libertine and woman about town. She divides her time between Fruita CO, Salt Lake City UT, and the open road. Her work has been published in Colorado Journeys, Bluestem Literary Journal, and Gyroscope Review.