107

before those who least expected it,
it was in her nature to swell
in the spaces between.

.
.

106

each thing
was but the shadow
of her care.

.
.

105

one could never tell
on which side of the fence
her garden stood.

.
.

104

yielding,
she would achieve
the unachievable.

.
.

103

when mute
the murmur of the leaves
would give voice
to the unspeakable.

.
.

102

for those haunted
by the spectre of their tears
each sob was an unintended prayer,
which she would string upon a garland
of the most beautiful sorrow.

.
.

101

cradled by the gentlest of glances
her sleep bore countless unseen suns.

.
.

100

her nudity a mirror,
the world became her attire.

.
.

099

she could always
be found dangling
at the end
of each breath.

.
.

098

there was no sadness
when looking at the past,
only the fine mist
that is the present.

.
.

097

her unknowing
was delicate and white,
and often took the form
of the palest tenderness.
.
.
.

096

to know her
was to become
ever more gentle.

.
.

095

hers
was the dawn
of all things.

.
.