She opens the window an inch. All around her a world that used to be. There is having by having and having by remembering. All of it a glory, but what is past is the treasure. What is worn is what has lived.
Death is too familiar, even though it adds weight.
Passion adds size but allows too much harm. There is a poetry that asks for this life of silence in midday. A branch of geranium in a glass that might root. Poems of time now and time then, each containing the other carefully.