Sep 3, 2018 · 1 min read
Her fever dreams hang a hair
over the bedside -and down, over
the white linen skirt, gazing into that
gap -that place,
where her thoughts tend to hide.
And when soft breezes wake her briefly,
between new conversations,
with an old friend,
maybe she sighs that the sun still lingers,
or that the icebox is so far away
down the hall,
across the steps of cool tile,
next to the door -to the garden,
humming its favorite tune.
