just about almost done
she hums
under her breath
tenacity a matter
of circumstance
she attempts with each waking
to transform this word lost
into something like
possibility
except for a lie
about the life span of wild orchids...
there is no room in her world-
arms stretch long and white
over his head- she smiles
wistful as last summer's dusk, late
and lately sleeps in
and with each
waking whispers
just a bit longer
but almost done
murmurs always a
question of
always a
question of'
always a
question of
lies.
