4/14/00

Her morning smelt of lilacs
and burnt coffee,
as she closed doors that
led her nowhere,
and turned to face
a musty breeze
that blew in from
the basement.

Digging under concrete rhymes,
she looked for puddles of tears
and broken toys,
and hand prints
shouting at the walls,
before the hand descended
to punish.

She worked blindfolded
into nightfall,
memory's dust,
the shovel at last
strikes its treasure.

Revealing nothing,
but soft light,
caressed,
and indifference fades
before the beautiful truth
of her heart.