A widow combs her wirey flaxen hair
and her dark eyes flow
coldly beneath a wilted brow,
her tome breathes heavily as she sits
on a raft,
curled in a warm magenta cup,
a rose’s basin,
teaching scents,
burning lessons,
scratching her life on a flower’s soft wall,
rubbing a stamen to sharpen her pencil,
chalky film collects as she winks,
blinded,
an incessant snow invades her dark rose,
long-picked,
wilting powerfully over
ice-capped wakes.
