In room after room we found bags of clothing
that she could not bear to part with.

They looked like giant cocoons
where wings of all colors lay trapped, unmoving.

Arranged on the baluster: a row of perfectly positioned
umbrellas, their silks twirled up and fastened.

The red-framed windows held hundreds of seeds
of rain— each one, precursor to the next.


In response to Via Negativa: Hourglass.

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