She has a certain style.
A panache.
A luminescent aura.
Forgetfulness is her charm.
Forgetfulness on summer afternoons
And autumn’s rainy nights.
Forgetfulness as the winds droop
And the Sails go still
Forgetful, but never to the song
Of the quail.
And on some mornings when
The auburn sun squeaks gently upon her face,
She looks down
Eyes squint and
Spine straight,
A little too still-
And She remembers,
Remembers
The letters under
Her sill.
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