She was neither elegant nor intuitive
She was a circle where all points of experience
Found their desire.
Loneliness was a respite in that circle
When she looked inward to find autumn, evil and the
aroma
Of fresh cut thyme, coriander and an oven
She had not fired since she went inward
And he was not there.
Her face was neither wrinkled nor was it to remember
It was what faced the days without expecting
A change.
Loneliness then was the mending of that circle
Where she once lost her pace
When the boat left the small island
For terra firma.
Before the storm.
This evening
Her name whispers through the stones
Left to cool after the fire is ash to touch
Is ash to the recall that once it was fire
And experience along the circle where she found
Her desires.
Now it is all echoes, vast empty space
Where once his brown eyes
Whispered her name
In a new language
February 23, 2019
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