A woman sits in a room alone
at a table.
Not a table with food
or a table with work.
A table that gleams faintly in the sunbeam
that comes from the far window.
Her eye traces the grain of the wood
where the light makes it gleam
and the dust motes dancing in the beam,
and the warmth of the floor
where the square forms itself bright
against the dark,
a square of light that moves as the day moves.
The seconds minutes hours move
the woman breathes and her heart moves
the blood in her veins
and she resettles herself on her seat
moves her legs, shuffles her feet
unconsciously. Her hands fold
over themselves she feels the bones in her palm
the skin over her knuckles
the fine hairs on the back of her hand
tickle as she brushes them.
Her dress moves grey in the blue room
moves silently under her hands
smoothes over her legs, brushing the tops of her shoes.
And her interior room is blue.
Her thoughts move slowly over the surface of things
so that they do not have to plunge into the depths.