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.