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About This Poem
Widow's Walk
The rail is cold beneath her palms,
Fingers curling, knuckles white.
Her face is smooth, expression calm,
Stomach burning, heartstrings tight.
The wood is worn, the floorboards creak -
Pacing footsteps through the night.
By raging sea, her tired eyes seek
A hopeful glimpse, a hopeless sight.
And in her mind, his face is etched -
A distant memory from this height.
With hair blown back and arms outstretched,
She appears ready to take flight.
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