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As young as she feels and as old as her habit, she
takes pen to paper struggling against the worm that
secretly nibbles away her life. All that fills her mind
she caresses, as if for the first time ... the cry of a
Morepork, the howls of King Lear, the ecstasy of
San Juan de la Cruz, the scent of a rose.
baring more
than her heart –
full moon
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Written by svetlana
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The parchment touch of her hand flutters weakly within the
supple warmth of mine as I read quietly to her from Doctor
Zhivago. Other words do not seem to have a place as stillness
settles within a summer evening's light.
ravages of winter
on the grave's mound
as her presence fades
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