In silent communion, with only a low
whisper or two sparsely stirring the air dead like
set in cold stone, they surrounded her too thickly
for her soft breath to surf away through in a soft
draught into the lemon orchard in mellow bloom.
There must have been an escape up into the air
That smuggled the pirouette away through the walls—
What used to be life lay limp in its still remains.