January 2011
1 post
Odds are she’s seen this floor a thousand times before.
Still, she grips my hand as enthused as a foster child, finally
at home, she blends in with blues and greens and
her eyes turn to bowls brimming with water
“lilies,” she whispers,
caught up in so many colors.
Water Lilies move her like no other.
I ask her why she’s crying, she
withers, a desert.
Me, a dry spell in a moment of such depth,...