Misted Morning
by Paloma
She
heard the door close
the
house as still as death.
Her
hand reached to
touch
her red hair,
rather
absentmindly,
and
it was still warm
from
his kisses.
His
smell, that clean,
clear
blue of a fresh sky,
a
cool lake
settled
behind her ear,
in
the hollow of her throat.
She
stood, wrapped in pink,
on
the terrace, the fog nestled
among
the rocks, and deep in those secret places,
that turned, like the leaves of fall,
into
a longing,
always after he left.
The
heavy mist pushed and
pinned
her down to an opened eye
dreaming,
rememberance of
a
man's arms, her harbor,
his
laugh, boyish,
and
a fury, like the mighty waves
breaking
and tearing
onto
the shore, of this man's love
She
closed her eyes as a seagull
stabbed
the sky with its cry.
She
held the glass of orange juice
in
a salute of defeat.
The
tide began to recede
leaving
purple and green rainbows
on
the wet sand.
"I
cannot fight you.
You
have his heart
and
you have left me
with nothing to offer him."
She
went back inside the house
her
brokeness stabbing the sky
with
a cry.
©Paloma, 2001. All rights reserved.