The same way the old fairy tales start
there was a woman
who stored her love like spare change
in a jar on the windowsill
& gave it out freely
when it was needed
sometimes it overflowed
but mostly the level was constant,
a blissful, unthinking diffusion
until the day a man moved in
& started taking more
than he gave;
not all at once, but gradually
the level of pennies dropped
not surprising to find that jar one morning empty,
not broken, not stolen,
just empty.
The absence of feeling
more painful than grief, echoes of living
heard in a vacant house.
Susan Daniels Poetry 