Musings
My first conscious breath of the day seems an effort.
I must rise and do it all over again. My cheek is cold
on the window pane as I watch the mist rise over the pond.
The geese are announcing their flight path.
A few more tomorrows and I will be a winter woman.
The sun barely rising over my horizons.
My memories slip through my fingers like quicksilver.
I touched his hand, and perhaps his heart, for a moment.
That warmth has faded and will not sustain my soul for long.
The wood mouse hurries across the yard and hides under a
stack of old lumber. It was meant for a spring arbor,
but I know flowers will never bloom there.
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