Aftermath

She keeps spent light bulbs,
wraps them in tissue saved from birthday parties,
stows them in stacked boxes,
labeled as close as she can get
to the exact time the tungsten fragmented
She holds a service for each one,
weeps over the first few dozen,
but there are hundreds now. She is old.
Next spring she will empty the closets,
unpack every row in the basement,
take shovel to earth along the lane
and bury each bulb,
grow dark flowers
from dead light.