Summer sunset turns the sky
Into a Mona Lisa.
Renaissance and reverie fade together as red
Fades into pink into orange
And clouds meander from one corner of sky
To another. The haze takes over us
We drown in this mirage.
She holds her seven-year-old self in her hands
Collecting one strand at a time
Ripped at every edge
We collect mud from the dead sea
Hoping it will make her feel like a masterpiece again
We hold our breath as she sits
Before a window smeared with fingerprints
Of patients whose presence has been noted
She rests on bleached cotton sheets
Overlooking a field of truffula trees, a
Sixteenth century portrait, and wild speculations.