It stands ajar, the old wood door,
where red brown rivulets that flow
from rusty nails and lock and hinges
leave their stains on sun bleached wood.
And there stands she in silhouette
and haloed by the candlelight,
the weavings of her twisted locks,
and scarf, and flowing silken gown.
The fallow tracts emerging now
as night time lifts its darkest veil.
Her eyes look out with vacant stare
abstracted in her world of dreams.
Tempered by the merging day
the view commanded now reveals
each blade and twig furred white with frost
as warm-hued shadows stretch and weave.
And cast there by the rising sun
the early rays which light the sky
bring slow divide from troubled dreams
which fade and melt with warmth of day.