by Shelly Couvrette
February 12, 2005
Day after day she forgets
the long run
the thief, stealing from her
rain drops spilling down glass
not lost, not sold, not given
the compass was hope for the scrubbing
How do you touch the dark?
Nasturtiums and a large bag of knitting and felt
but they are of charm and she would never see red
my heart, Portia to an artist in training,
the bone of a thought that was hid long ago
in a place only dreaming could know.
Copyright © 2007 Shelly Couvrette