A low wind without voice
brushed the small third story
window where she looked out.
The ocean, not far away, lay clam
like a lion dreaming of the hunt.
Her bed, unmade. Covers tossed,
evidence of nights trappings and
the places in-between.
She whispers a psalm from waking
lips. Coffee completes the eyes
to fully open as thoughts ruggedly
assemble.
On a card table, scattered photos,
wrinkled and faded speak of
her past. The sun cuts an
angle onto the back wall. Her
cat purrs. The day begins as she
steps from the room.
Roger Singer 