she imagines a morning
rain knocks with its small hands
upon the window
louder than rain in the sills of her mind
she sees herself heating water
it is just water
not a wet scarred day
that blistered her memory
she picks a fruit from the bowl
it is just a fruit
it carries no histories of war
from foreign lands
nor scent of discontent
it snows
it is just snow
no ghost grasps her cold hands
under the knitted icy mantle
of its forgotten season
no ghosts came beseeching
that she remember
each name, each face, each leaf,
or countless shores
her faithful boots still visits
in reminiscence
she is a house no longer fit for haunting
perhaps such morning finds happiness
sauntering in with dainty paws
like a long lost cat
coming home