her heart looks through the winter window
wondering, and wandering
in futures yet-to-come or ever be —
the lights are coming down, and she’s
meandering and maundering
out in the cold of irreality
her heart is like a broken arrow
still it tries, each waking day, to fly —
and even though
the way be frozen,
she still hears her heart’s soft
lullaby
Picture credit : ID 82228349 Tatsiana Hraiko | Dreamstime.com
Love the development, the passage from one sense and image to another in this poem. Maundering is a new-to-me word — “talk in a rambling manner,” “move or act in a dreamy or idle manner.” What a wonderful word!
🙂