Her heart crashed on the stairway with a pound
but not one star blinked to descend or touch
the distant tremble as coal night grew long,
as murmur signed through whispers down the floor.
A trail of pages blew in feathered wafts
yet imprints of their silence still remained.
The words were gentle and addressed with love
Delivered not, will clawed pain matter now?
A woman lived alone and passed through clouds
that no one tended how she glazed old weeds.
The tunes of berry months were never hummed,
as if the strings of twilight plucked a life
The crashing stars, the page, and gentle weeds
though shortened in presence, were not relieved;
for time became a thief wearing cloaked breath
like sighs untold in hushed tones to the breeze
for Debbie's Let Get Serious Contest by nette