Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain,"
she whispered to the whimpering infant,
trailing memories behind her likes wisps of clouds,
translucent and strangely opaque,
a path that led from wheelbarrows,
covered with rain, littering the front yard
to an icebox once possessed of plums.
Gently gliding through histories,
she exited through the hotel door,
flush with youth,
and followed the slowly unraveling yarn
out of the labyrinth,
breathless with freedom,
dancing through the remnants
of an Eden that once stretched eastward
to the royal town built by Grecian kings,
before an apple convinced Adam to tempt Eve,
she uncovers their leaves,
and gently sifts through
pages
of thoughts covered in dust
rife with singular identities
that form an unmistakably
intricate pattern of seconds
that lead to the minute
when she soothes the now sleeping baby
with the story of an old man.
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