Her language remains trapped in a spectrum splashing fractured light into the bedroom as if through her sunwashed curtains in this morning's grey of winter
Her language, her birthright has meshed into adulthood as a tangle of myths and codes revealing the now whitewashed, waning impact of the last trauma stale now as a bowl of dried rose petals
Yet the sweetness the scent and the glisten of the sweat between her breasts is what remains of her struggle at dawn after a night of sleepless, restless dreaming
She is stepping outside where the ice cracks beneath her feet, while from above hanging tree limbs wait for spring
This day too, has its particular meaning this day too, she did somehow
