The clouds were blue. The grasses knew they were turning brown.
Birds flew south, and round her mouth, lines that don’t make a sound.
The lining’s grey. The grass is hay, marching into a bail.
Crops are dust, and she must find some wind for her sail.
Around the yard the water’s hard, turning into a mirror.
The winter snow that they did sow grows nearer and nearer.
They never knew if she were blue for never having a child.
The flower bed had thoughts instead. And weeds around her grow wild.
Her folded sail, old maid’s tale lie asleep in the drawer
of a bedside table barely able to stand anymore.
© Audsongs 2014