That day Maggie Allen,
propped up in her bed,
was staring at the bedspread.
Snow, melting in her eyes,
fell, tiny bells,
into the valley far below.
Suddenly, arms spread wide,
a blizzard of hair,
she swept outward
off her ledge,
into the sky
across the room.
We stared at her
nonplussed face,
the four pillows tucked behind her.
No comments:
Post a Comment