Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Home she gets and there,
among books she stays.
Feet over the couch,
Table for tea and on her knees the crumbs.
Out she goes and surrounded by tales she works.
Describing every fish and stone, the words.
A lily or headpiece.
A meaningful stream of sorts.
She reaches her hand,
By size or hue,
Flickering they come.
Endless, in white.
Inky and not finite.
Comet like, frail stars.
And as she turns back,
At infinite dark damned waters she stares large.
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