A draft ruffles
my bedroom
on this pollen-bearing night,
a novel open before me
as TV blares from
downstairs,
voices talk
below floorboards,
and I am alone,
blanket pulled
over my legs
as I turn pages,
a page falls,
a slow turn,
slow like a moth
wandering toward light,
and a sudden memory flashes:
a headstone
with a large winged angel woman
near it, like Athena on a grassy hill,
the cemetery green
near the pond
we played by
Echoes
