My wife is on the couch, her eyes half-closed.
Her lips are pursed and taut; her head is resting
Upon her outstretched palm; her hair and fingers
Are intertwined; her lidded eyes are flitting
Around some tiny, distant point.
The afternoon has turned her eyes a golden,
Mysterious soft brown, with sunbeams pooling
Within her lap, 'till radiance seems to fill her;
The sun, the room and she are wholly still.
I can't imagine where her mind could be.
Copyright by Ike Wassom 2013. All rights reserved.
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