Dark tresses brush the sill, slightly,
Face tilted, tantalisingly, toward the street.
Always this pensive position, hands held tightly
Shoulders hunched,eyes wide, dress neat.

A black bicycle, the humm-click of chain,
Emerges to exist under a soft, street lamps, light.
Shapes, indistinct, call gently through soft rain,
A delicate sonance, as day disperses night.

The oil lamp, on the bed stand, glows,
Casting silent shadows in a single room.
An antique rocking chair, restfull in repose,
Forget-me-not's, on the mantle, in full bloom.

An opened, re-read letter, on an un-slept-in bed,
'We are sorry to inform you'...
She glances at it, eyes quiet,
nothing to be said.

The window swings quietly shut, closed to the day.
Breaking the rocking chairs recline, she sits, un-feeling.
And with tired eyes watches the flickering lamp light play,
a silent symphony, across their one room's ceiling.