In the window of the morning.

The Oracle sent yet another poem about a tragic female figure. I found this Waterhouse painting to fit the subject, and there is a window, onto another morning.

A child explores a broken cup in the grass.

Had it held poison once, does she remember

the woman weeping in despair

and and and

desire?

Her ghost haunts the shards,

life spilling an ocean of wild pictures,

a a

an embrace then death.

 

She raises the cup to her lips,

her dreams stirring uneasily,

lets the liquid memory pour

in perfumed peace, a slow stream.

 

Would time have made a difference?

 

The girl shakes her head with a soft smile,

Best to make an end

and sleep in the arms of the trees.

 

From the night, the woman sighs, agrees,

Let the day grow dark,

so so so

this glass may shine

like a star in the grass

for a child to find

in the window of another morning.