.
Sometimes
I’ll see her wander in,
adorned
in unfamiliar veils
and
scarves and hat
and wonder
where she possibly
.
could
have acquired all of that.
I
didn’t put them there,
and
no one else has favored her
with
his or her attention that I know of.
.
She’s
long not had a flow of dough
to spend
on anything. And what
accounts
for all the flowering
of
new appurtenances sprouting from
.
her
skin I’d never seen sprout up before?
Whatever
has afforded her return –
its
what and why and when –
we
can discern she’s ventured forth again
to test
the air for more than temperature,
although
how cold or warm it is,
is
of surpassing interest: she seeks
whatever
signs she can divine align
.
with
hope – and if the world is genially
temperate
to her today, might that, she
wonders,
signify a welcome, bidding her
to
stay? She wonders if the Cosmos ever
.
will
forgive her for her heinous sin.
Or
if it simply isn’t interested
at all
in what befalls her.
So
far it hasn’t been.
.
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