Like the wind or seaon a traumatic day,
she lashes out
at everyone and everything
in her path.
but the woman within
wants to blame the exterior
for what she can’t see or grasp–
she owned the keys
to door and gate. Her heels
left the etch marks
of a Hellenic woman on the stairs.
Composed, she controlledthe room’s elements
of light and shade. Heat and air.
No one questioned
her presence --
until now. Her mind and bonesare chipped. The fragmented
marble of antiquity
that can’t filter echoes
or cast a maven’s shadow.
Yet, on the worst of daysshe still knows the white
aroma of wine