She wakes to the sound of foreign music
floating softly from the radio beside her bed
and in the crowded space where dreams linger
the rustle of something rubbing
against something else.
The walls have all been painted
a dull yet blinding yellow.
There’s no trace of where things used to be.
She’s put all the memories in storage boxes
with tight-fitting lids and stacked them
in the farthest corner of the attic.
Her shoulders still ache from the weight.
Later she rides the bus to work.
The distant sound of a train whistle mingles
with the moan of a sharp north wind.
The moon, stark and white in an indigo sky
rides along beside her. She watches it glide
through the branches of elms and poplars
and above snow-covered rooftops.
She can no more escape the moon
than her own death.
At the park she gets off the bus
and in large letters slowly writes
her name in the snow.
The wind has vanished and the moon is fading.
She listens to the sound of no birds
and to the footsteps of those who are not walking.
Exquisitely alone in this strange
familiar landscape she begins to sing.
Clean clear notes rise and hang like jewels
in the cold air around her as she watches
the glow of emerging sunlight scatter
the grey breath of dawn.