So swollen with salt, her eyes are tired and dry
that the slightest of breeze would dare her to cry.
In a sunken chair she sits motionless and still
a young weary widow rests heavily on a windowsill.
After long hours of darkness, and without a wink of sleep,
the sun has crept up, flushing her world with bright light.
Its radiance takes hold of her face, its rays reaching deep,
hoping to relieve her from this colorless night.
Perched in a tree, somewhere a bird sings,
announcing the day, his voice echoes and rings.
She hears this morning bird, and curses his song
for it’s light airy tune is too loud and all wrong.
How dare this day be so great, when she sits here alone?
Never again to hold his hand, or hear him laughing on the phone,
or be chilled by soft warm air, when his breath meets her skin,
or see the freckles in his eyes, or taste his dumb, teasing grin.
So what if the air if fresh, rich with the flower’s damp perfumes,
or that the sun has painted the sky, and everything else its light consumes?
She detests that impatient sun, that has imposed its grace on her mourning,
by casting its charm too early, for such glory is alive in the morning.
