She folds her arms inside her robe
And decides to go to bed
For the tenth time.
She closes her eyes and sighs
And turns around,

But the tricky cooling night slides
Through her graying hair -
Whistles through.
It sings a song to keep her near,
Keep her crying.

She sits back down on the porch swing,
Feet in the air, tiny again.
She's afraid, but
She knows it isn't going anywhere.
She wonders why.

A melody from tomorrow breaks the clouds,
And she looks to the horizon.
The sun is rising;
A bird awakes and flies to the power lines.
The night is dying.

She muses to herself that, in the light,
The willows' weeping looks like
Content sighing.
The grass she cut down yesterday
Is still climbing.