Sitting alone by her window, somewhere
in that extra shaft of apricot sunlight –
just days after the winter solstice
against a cold pink-streaked sky she
thinks she sees the child I was running
Frail arms that reach out to catch me,
hold me, hug me collapse
empty against her chest in a
hollow thud. The last lonely leaf
of an old peach taps and raps frantically
at the window – wakes her from her dream
before spiraling down leaving
mother tree bereft – bare.
The yard is empty. The sun sinks.
Dark descends. The child is