On Visiting My Mother’s House after Her Death

Oh, queen of neatness, you have made a mess
Of all these cupboards, cabinets, and drawers;
The rooms and scenes you used to prepossess
About, and that you still considered yours
Before you slipped from this world to the next.
Now mugs mix up with glasses, post-its strew
The halls and walls, and all the rooms are vexed
With obsolete ephemera and spew.
So life, unraveling, unravels all
It touches, with no malice of intent:
Casually, ancient strictures fall
Around a straggler’s haphazard descent.
And yet, untouched, your spotless spirit flies
Past order, past disorder, to the skies.

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