Veiled in the gentle shawl of half-light,

she cranes over her desk, fervently scribbling

down some revelation from a dream.

Perhaps tonight she will finally realize

why wilted gardenias and soup spoons

dance around her head like raindrops.

She never uses it anymore, but the drawer of

her vanity houses two strips of worn ribbon

wrapped around her mother’s choker,

new pearl earrings and blue nail polish.

As the sun peeks over the windowsill,

she shuffles delicately into the kitchen, still

occupied by the wisps of an empty promise.

Gauzy curtains shift like slinking tomcats,

isn’t it funny how we can’t hear the breeze?