The sunlight dapples the blank waiting page,
From the window, shouts of children at play,
My bones remind me, to me a lost age,
A lone crow calls out-but what does he say?
The electric fan whirs through a hot, sultry day,
Endlessly turning like a mechanical cage,
Brushing stale air from its spiraling blades,
As she walks through the room,
In a long silken dress, beauty in movement,
But not a word said-
Exchanging only our emptiness.