Betsy Robin Schwartz

Water is hissing through pipes

to wash something

that should be surging

through a sundried soul.

She bathes, scouring and peeling

layers of love's lofty illusions;

a legacy left to die

as she towel's dry.

Smelling and stretching fresh,

she floats to a new world

it is finished, over

but why care

when the mending

and washing

are done.