She comes to me
in the quiet,
So often
in my morning bed;
When tears have dried
in the bright silence,
and dreams have fled.

Windows open,
doors locked tight,
Against intruding shadows sometimes
even,
against the Light.

She isn’t gentle.
She isn’t kind.
She’s there to prod me;
to remind:

I called her back.
Whistled the Wind.
I sang her close.

I let her in.
I
let her
In.