she gets up when she wakes up and
she wakes up when she will;
the snow, a crystal chalice there
upon her windowsill –
she gathers up her coffee in
a cup to big for one,
and hums a tuneless song that is
for everyone
and none

she wanders through the wasteland that’s
a day that she enjoys;
the winter, like a blanket, warms
and muffles most the noise –
she has another coffee, since
there’s coffee to be had;
and hums a tuneless song that
isn’t good, but
isn’t bad

she feels his hands upon her when
the day’s been put to flight;
as light upon her shoulders, winter
settles in for night –
she rinses out her coffee cup, as
thoughts begin to steep:
and hums a tuneless song, that
every night
puts her to sleep

she’ll dream of cats and shiny things,
and bits that glow and fluff –
and hear a tuneless song, because
the words are not
enough