ELIZABETH RYLAND MEARS

 

 Rooms

She had been away so long
from those rooms.
She knew the air inside would shift.
The dust would hang over
wood and faded brocade.
She expected worms
tunneling through her books,
Moths half awake in woolen blankets.
But she hadn't pictured the doves
Their bright eyes
watching from their nest
beside the mirror.

by L. Lindsey Mears

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