I found her sitting,
sunk into a broken recliner--
the one in the back room
with the tired arms; old arms worn down,
frayed like miniature tassels on the ends--
her legs were pulled under her
like they always are
when her thoughts are heavy
and she can't stand the cold

her suitcase lied open
not far from the doorway
where I'd come in
clothes leaked from the inside--
puddled on the floor around it--
and I had to watch my step
as I walked farther in to see her

she didn't say anything
when I came in
her eyes were unfocused,
staring at the opposite wall
where she'd given up earlier
trying to hang a picture up
the nail was already driven
shallowly into the tan
it was the sole decoration of the room--
not much to look at--
but she stared at it like it was the painting
lying face-up on the ground next to her
like it was enough of a respite
from the blank wall
maybe she saw something I didn't
in what wasn't there
some simplistic beauty, maybe
but I couldn't see it
all I saw were tired hands

she was the one who picked it--
that soft tan staining the walls--
she said it looked like morning coffee
when the lights were off
and it made her feel like she was home
back where the walls were paper-thin
and the backyard trees grew tall

she didn't ever drink coffee
but she liked the idea of it
liked waking up to the smell
and watching it pour
but she never liked the taste
I was close to her
close enough to smell the drink in the air
she held a mug in one hand
let it rest on her leg as she stared
and it wasn't missing a drop

I drew nearer and looked
at what leaned against the chair--
the picture was of a forest
and a village buried between trunks--
she told me about the place once
but she didn't remember painting it
she was sure she'd been there
sometime in a dream
and she'd met all of the people
read them like poetry
promised to keep them close
and forgot them all promptly
when she woke up

she led her gaze from the nail,
her sleepy eyes focusing
when I reached her
her hands were like ice under mine
and she spoke softly to me,
slowly through languid pauses
about packing up to visit the forest again--
about how she wished it would snow
and how wonderful the trees would look
if they were painted white
instead of green