(Ces heures-l`a nous furent bonnes comme des soeurs apitoy'ees ...
- Francis Viele Griffin)
Evening drifts between your late replies; the hours wait upon you like my hands ... In this remembered room, migrant, your words flow softly from the thanking in your eyes.
The gentle weathers of your hope once more stir in the lingering season of my care; now in this simple light you're not alone to contradict the whisper at the door.
Your eyelids flicker. Swallows on the sill lift up their destined wings against the hour; I cannot guess what circumstance of sound, what shadow moved or where, what final grace
released them south. The smiling in your voice has somehow turned around the falling day. What is this vision lifting in your face? My spoken hands have nothing more to say.