her feelings like tears slide
down the exterior of a wall
to its base at the pale floor;
the imaginary flowers
planted each spring wilt and
every fall, cones of salt are
scraped away, and the soil,
on which she stands, is made
fertile with her female instincts;
winter brings a chill and her
feelings are wrapped in the
web like fabric of a wool shawl,
cracked and brittle to the touch;
a burst of energy frees spring's
youthfulness and the innocence
of her feelings escapes from
under the weight of the wall;
she is delightful and petite
as her tears evaporate with the
rising warmth of an early sun;
she washes her hands like
Lady Macbeth, it sounds echo
down a porcelain hallway, a
mental place to insulate her,
to shield here from the seasons
and the thin currents of time on
which her feelings must ride;
the wall stand forever strong,
forever tall, forever solid.
December
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