Line dried canvas pants glow
under the sun of the evening sky.
She wanted to call out to you as
you played in the yard, but her
words were caught. You looked
too wonderful, like a cluster of stars
poured silver and blue into a pale cup.
The world is a mosaic to her, one she
examines too closely and loses, the
fine tiles worn and weathered,
blanched from the years. There is
a dripping sound as water seeps from
the plants hanging on the patio. Dust lingers
in the air and masks the brightness of
your golden hair, your darling smile a wisp,
a delusion of the sweetness of sorrow,
of the innocence of a child.
Filaments of sentimentality have worn her
down. Dandelions at your feet and
in the garden pop, small bursts of
spring in the moist sweet grass. A
breeze sways the clothes on the line,
despondent, bringing with it a reckoning
that settles chillingly in the corners of
the house. Imagine, as she does, an image
held, stuck like the breath in her throat,
a time of youth balancing on a needle
in her heart.