Frances
I read to her each Saturday;
it's always the same, she greets
me from bed. Auburn hair ripples
across her pillow, like a streamlet
searching for another land.
An old tabby burrows
beneath her comforter.
As foxgloves tip against windows
and spin purple into morning,
she shows me a black and white
photo that frames the sparkle
of her former self.
Beyond sun-slit curtains,
a ribbon of cloud settles over
the arbor and pulls like a whisper
through the ivy. Today, as I hold
her hand, she tells me her late husband
waits in the doorway;
I believe her.
(first published by Flutter Poetry Journal)