My beloved outdoors has turned
against me.  The cicadas, ticks,
humidity drive me here to read,
this cool dusky place need not
be conditioned by anything
other than the promise 
of her occasional presence.
Boxes of geometric scraps
of fabric are stacked along the walls,
remnants from her historical clothing
projects, begun in a time
that has itself become antique.
On the desk is a framed photo
of her a half century ago
dancing with a handsome man:
dress baroque, hair flying with the emotion
and passion of the moment.
Here I feel the concentration of her life.
My reading slows with the realization 
that perhaps I’m a visitor here
in my afterlife.