She ties ribbons around the stems
of gathered conversations;
small petaled words,
lying wilted and brittle.
At times, when the sun was shining,
she had thought
they might grow into a garden,
even when they were severed.
Still, she keeps returning to them.
Only the moon is still there,
watching her,
through the dark fragrance
of summer nights,
reading the narrative,
written in swirling calligraphy,
on her inner walls;
a black silk soliloquy
of reflective solitude.
