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(Purchased from a boutique in Montmartre) (Poem by Wendy Howe ) Her apartment has no pets to stroke or express the need for gentle stillness. Turkish drama unfolds as room blossoms into room. Doors are left opened, ushering in ruby walls and the scent of roses crowning a brass samovar. At times, she feels tightly sewn into the lush decor and rips herself free retreating to a white sofa that haunts the terrace. A slight creature with clawed feet and cushioned back, it echoes leaf shadows and the soul of a woman who kept her emeralds but shed royalty because she could not bear The Emperor's son. Simply made, the couch suits the vulnerable self and draws a cool wind from the courtyard trees. So she settles here when the inside world seems to glare; her limbs and feelings stretched out in a clearer light and the seat of a fair-shouldered empress who like her was christened "Josephine". To know more about Wendy Howe All Images & Poems (En) |
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