(Poem by Wendy Howe )

Maybe it is running all the errands
and managing a second household
while her brother lies in the hospital
that leads to this dream.

Once asleep, she finds herself poised
on a balcony observing how the sky
fills its dark lungs with moonlight
and white gardenias.

Below, seawater ripples against
the vertebrae of an ancient pier;
she can feel the salt and flowers
commingle in scent, casting her spirit
underneath the evening tide.

Downward, she descends slowly
as if peeled from the landscape's bone;
and her shadow hovers in the bright pulse
of water and tangling plants. Soon

she sees the ruins of a stone villa
etched in the blue, blue silence.
Columns, statues and urns
delineate half a garden, a house
and herself seeking the serene
antiquity of another woman's life;

a lady whose pace floated through the hours,
her opalescent hands catering
to the neckline of a lover
and a jar filled with raisin wine.

© 2011, Wendy Howe. E-mail.
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Sirène au port

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© 2011,

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