White, her dress, pristine...pure.
Stems of white lilies and white roses
bound with white ribbon clutched
in her hands as she waited.
She waited in the small white church
with the tall white steeple.
She waited in vain.
Years have colored the white dress to pale yellow.
The white flowers to a rotten, dried, brown.
The church is thirsty...weathered.
Every year she comes on that day
in that dress
holding those flowers
at that church
and she waits...she waits.
On this day, her weathered, wrinkled hands
clutch the tattered brown bouquet
and she leans against the church,
her breath rattling in the cold air.
The flakes of white falling.
Falling into blankets of white
until everything, dress, flowers,
church are white again.
Years of waiting are over.