At dawn, thrushes and finches
decorate her windowsill,
a chorus of jocosity,
as she wanders the kitchen
with day-old coffee and stale
pastries in her hands.
At noon, she grows red and
yellow bell peppers
in a half-forgotten garden,
wondering why the soil
cakes her hands with dejection,
no matter how much tenderness
she tills the earth with.
At night, ghosts lounge in the
common room, hovering near
a lonesome lamp, drawn to its
dismal light, using their energy
sparingly to remain close to her.
She sleeps with her father's
pocketknife under her pillow,
knowing it is no longer sharp
enough, realizing she doesn't
have that option anymore,
and she shuffles to bed in the dark,
unaware if she is even alive.
