As the north wind blows beneath
the floor, between cracks never
repaired, around window sash
decayed by countless winter’ s
of neglect, through frayed seams
in quilted covering and down
chimney long since deprived
of warmth, she laid remembering... of by gone Summers by the pond,
tossing popcorn to the bobbing
goldfish, giggling as blackbirds
swooped in and out singing
songs for food, of spiders
crawling along her hand, turning
it so they would spin a silver
thread toward the ground.
Gently she swung them to and fro,
humming a lullaby. She smiled briefly as she
began to write. I, the only
witness to her hand.
Softly then melting into
Summers by the pond. "Summer first fades
into Autumn before
the cold winds blow." Annabelle never
asked for
much, except,
not to die alone.