She wakes again to a day
Where the air is spring-drenched with daffodils
And all the earth is rain-softened, flexible.
She envies it while she wonders where winter has gone
And when exactly the dark buds
Will begin to pierce through her white and deadened flesh.
Stretching now, she yawns
And feels her muscles groan,
Mourning the effort of another day, another life
In which nothing real can happen.
Nothing ever does.
So she waits for a moment before opening her eyes
And, in the flicker of time between sleeping and waking,
Strains her senses towards an unfamiliar sound,
Perhaps the sharp surprise of routine confounded.
But there is only silence
And she acknowledges instead
The cool caress of dank air on skin, the loneliness of blood,
Sunlight being hidden.
Although still she wonders
And is therefore almost unprepared
For the room's stark revelation when her eyelids finally flutter open
And she sees then what she sees always:
A wardrobe filled only with dresses;
A half-empty shelf; a photograph.