Her Open Window


Fresh steps in snow
reveal her footprints –
as evening paints her
garage a deeper shade
of yellow – as squirrels
leap over steep banks
of snow – a black crow
circles dried toast, she
tossed from her

Small red beans attached
to thorns – her bushes
coated with ice –
crack – letting color peak
from winters coat – the
sun disappears behind the
garage – near tulips
fighting to be born
again – near pears resting
on the ground. . .

Her round pedestal table
is cold, naked without
her special tablecloth –
hand sewn flowers at the
edge – dried flowers
on display from last
summer. . .

Her pedestal table near
the second-floor window –
now cluttered with
notes . . .
A wind enters – from
her second floor
window –
notes tossed
I rush to gather paper –
another gust of wind
entered her window.

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Angie's Diary